


Holy Branches

by kindmisha



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Canon, Demon Blood Addiction, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, M/M, Sastiel Big Bang 2014, Sick Sam Winchester, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-06
Updated: 2014-12-06
Packaged: 2018-02-28 09:42:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2727662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kindmisha/pseuds/kindmisha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Dean is sent to Hell Sam is almost driven to madness, when no demon is willing to agree to his deal Sam takes matters into his own hands in order to rescue his brother. The demon blood nearly kills him and so Sam is just barely surviving from day to day  but his life is twisted even more when a <i>“so-called Angel of the Lord”</i> shows up at his doorstep claiming he can not only save Sam but his brother as well. Season 4 AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There are so many people I'd like to thank like [story_monger](http://archiveofourown.org/users/story_monger), because this certainly wouldn't exist without her help. Also thank you to [hhwgv](http://hhwgv.livejournal.com/) for helping me with my second draft extremely last minute. And of course thank you to [swordofthehost](http://swordofthehost.livejournal.com/) for her phenomnal artwork which you can see [here](http://swordofthehost.livejournal.com/1300.html)
> 
> As well quick shoutout to the Rooster Podcast for keeping me (mostly) sane while writing and big thanks to GISHWHES for giving me the courage to post this lovely story, I hope you enjoy it!

 

_But everybody's bones are just holy branches_

_  
Cast from trees to cut patterns into the world_

_  
And in time we find some shelter_

_  
Spill our leaves and then sleep in the Earth_

 

**-Holy Branches, Radical Face**

 

 

 

 

_May 1st, 1983_

Time travel has always been perplexing to Castiel.

 

Not only is it frustrating, it’s also extremely painful and leaves him aching and powerless for far too long.  There’s also the petrified feeling he gets when he thinks there is a chance he could be stuck in that era forever.

 

Time is not only an enigma, it is tangible in that it is very easy to get stuck in and even harder to dig out of, like swimming with massive weights attached to his legs.

 

It’s the worst possible thing to think about: stewing in a timeline, being stuck powerless and having to be cautious of his actions so he doesn’t mess anything up. It would mean that he would have to wait the years out. Depending on the time, the wayward angel would have to keep hidden, not only from demons that he knows would be hunting for him but from a force more terrifying. His own family. They would gladly cut his wings off and toss him to Earth given the opportunity to do so

 

He shivers. Any angel’s wrath is something that he never wants to face. If he gets caught, Uriel would be the least of his worries. In fact, he would prefer his older brother’s rage over any of the other angels’. But this has to be done. It’s worth the risk.

 

He just feels himself falling. Just in darkness at first, then finally reaching the ground, and rather than flying into it he lands upside down in wet grass, smacking his head hard on the dirt and tumbling over. It isn’t the most graceful of landings, but it is far better than landing in the wrong time.

 

This seems to be the right time and, judging by the scenery and the family inside, he is in the perfect place, if only several feet off. If he is correct, it is around 1:30 am on November 1st, 1983. Exactly 1:36 am, to be precise. He has an hour at most, but even then, it’s a huge risk.

 

Castiel gets up and brushes himself off. He appears to be located in the backyard of the Winchesters’ home, which is far closer than he expected to be. It’s a lot closer than he is comfortable with. He is stalking towards a crucial point in history. One false move would result in a ripple effect that could possibly change the outcome of the apocalypse, which would not be an easy mess to clean up.

 

He glances around. When he sees nothing, he brushes it off as paranoia and steps through the neat backyard, the morning dew soaking uncomfortably through his shoes. Castiel is veiled so he is sure that no human will be able to see or hear him, but that doesn’t stop him from carefully opening the back door and creeping inside.

 

He walks through the back door, glancing around the kitchen at the various knick knacks and family photos that adorn the walls. There are toys scattered on the floor. The house looks just right, comfortable and lived in, it makes him sad in a strange way. There is only so much that he can change.

 

Giving the Winchester family the happy, peaceful life they deserve is an impossibility. His Father can’t manage a change that large, if he is even still around.

 

John Winchester is lying on the couch with Mary leaning gently on his chest. Castiel looks at the scene bitterly. It is an upsetting sight. Heartbreaking, really. He watches them for several seconds before he creeps by, keeping his eyes on them in case they notice somehow. It is just paranoia creeping into his throat again so he pushes it aside.

 

Keeping himself veiled is taxing, especially after travelling through time. Castiel can feel himself flickering into proper reality as he stalks upstairs. There are creaks and groans as he puts his weight on the stairs.  The stairs creak  and groan slightly as he puts his weight on them

 

He makes it to the top, making sure to check every few seconds to ensure he has not made enough noise to alert John and Mary downstairs.

 

The flickering night light in the hallway illuminates his shadow as he walks by. He feels nervous, glancing around again as he approaches the end of the hall.

 

This is going to have to be fast, he thinks and hastily stepping out of the dimly lit hallway and into Sam’s nursery. The room is lit softly by a small nightlight in the corner of the room. There are many stuffed animals and toys, some are laid neatly while others are scattered across the floor.

The room is painted a soft blue colour and the crib is made from a wood he recognizes to be maple. He knows that Mary bought it at a garage sale. He runs his hand across the surface gently and sighs.

 

Sam sleeps softly, bundled in several blankets; he is completely undisturbed by the angel’s presence. He seems so peaceful. It is the first time he’s ever seen Sam completely at peace, his soul utterly untouched by taint and guilt. It is soft and concealed, not as bright as most but hidden, like the gently glow of a candle, so dim it is hard to see its brightness. He just stares. It is hard to believe that someone so hopeful and innocent would essentially destroy the world and blame himself when it is really no fault of his own.

 

Castiel stops to consider the time. He has 10 minutes at most before he has to return. He looks over his shoulder. Seeing no one, he reaches into the crib, trying to be as gentle as possible as he picks the warm bundle that is Sam. Sam squirms immediately, his eyes flying open. He looks around frantically in surprise, gripping Castiel’s coat tightly with his hands and preparing to let out a cry.

 

Castiel holds Sam closer and rocks him gently, and Sam quiets, settling softly against the material of Castiel’s trench coat. Sam’s eyes focus on Castiel’s for a moment before he falls back asleep.

 

“I’m sorry,” Castiel whispers, even though he knows it won’t matter. Apologizing will do nothing, but it doesn’t hurt to try. Sam is happily sleeping in Castiel’s arms again, and the angel bundles him tighter in his blankets before he gently places him back into the crib.

 

He hears a creaking noise from the top of the stairs and panics slightly, covering himself completely and vanishing before he can even see who it is.

**

It’s another sketchy motel, the same old backdrop on the same story, Dean carefully rearranges himself on the stiff couch, as to not knock or accidently shove his little brother who’s sitting happily on the other side. Sam’s just old enough to be sitting on his own now, with the help from a few carefully placed cushions.

 

He’s happy in that way only babies can be, absorbed completely by the cartoons on the television. And Dean feels just happy being around Sam, because he’s always cheerful and laughing even when Dean knows nothing really funny, and even when they’re stuck in stingy motel rooms, he somehow just manages to cheer him up.

 

Thinking about it makes Dean frown, thinking about how guilty Dad echoes in his head, how miserable he looked holding Sam and giving him a pat on the head and a kiss on the cheek before he placed him on the couch, exactly where he is now and left with the same parting words he always did.

 

Take care of Sammy.

 

And that’s precisely what Dean does; he likes watching Sam be Sammy. He doesn’t know about evil or monsters. He knows nothing of werewolves, wendigoes, vampires or shapeshifters and Dean hates to admit but he’s jealous, big time. But he still tries to make the best of it and he likes to teach Sam of the good, even if he knows that he won’t remember a thing later, it’s all about the moment.

 

It’s the perfect time to tell him about their mother and how amazing she’d been and how much she loved them both; even when she was watching from Heaven she still loved them and he always remembers the last thing she said to him

 

Angels are watching over you. And Dean truly believes they are, despite the bad things that he’s seen and heard about, he believes that there has to be good to balance all that evil, someway.

 

One time, he remembers bitterly, not too fondly he’d been feeding Sam while his Dad had gone to the store across the corner street briefly to pick up something.Sam was smearing his food all over the place, just because he could, and completely out of nowhere he says “Mam” or it sounds like “Mama” to Dean  in his soft baby voice and Dean felt something strange in his belly.

 

Dean stops and  finishing feeding Sam and he gets so miserable and he gets a stomach ache and he cannot stop thinking about why it makes him so upset, it just does.He puts Sam carefully onto one of the two beds in their room, making sure he’s not near the edge where he might fall. Dean curls around him on the other side , hugging him close and waiting for their dad to come home because somehow it makes him feel better.

 

Sam will never know why that word means so much, or who it refers to.He’ll know it’s important because Dean’s told him it is and but he won’t understand and he’ll never really know why.

 

Dean pulls him closer apologizing softly into his even softer hair

 

“I’m sorry Sammy” and his eyes flutter closed, just as he hears Sam’s sleeping and he falls asleep

 

**

 

The best thing about Sammy is that he likes when you read to him. Whatever it is he listens intently to whatever you choose. Dean doesn’t really have the opportunity to get books to read and he doesn’t know how to read all that well but he tries. He feels bad for stealing from libraries but he does anyway because Sam loves the pictures and all the colours, but he gets the most out of the horrible coffee newspapers and menus and even strangely the Bible.

 

It’s unusual reading it. Dean doesn’t understand everything he’s reading but he reads anyway and he especially likes the angels and how powerful and good they are and he can swear Sam loves hearing about them too, just as much as he does.

 

One night Dean pulls out that small statue that he pulled out of his room of their old house. Sam’s more stable now, sitting on the couch perfectly on his own, playing with a toy. Dean sits up next to him, their dad briefly stepping out for “grown-up business” which Dean was too scared to ask about, but it gives him alone time and it’s the only time he can talk about angels and religion and God.

 

He shows Sam the statue and quickly the brightly colored toy falls to the floor, as Sammy focuses his puppy eyes on the object in his brother’s hands. Slowly Dean offers to him; Sam snatches it in his hands and pushes into his mouth, nibbling on it gently.

 

Dean quickly pulls it out of his chubby fingers. “No, Sammy you don’t chew on this.” Sam frowns at him and sometimes Dean forgets that despite the fact that Sam listens better than most adults he knows, he’s still a baby and doesn’t know any better.

 

“Mom gave this, before she went to see the angels and she said they are going to watch over me, over both of us.” Sam is intent on his every word, and he reaches out his arms for statue, eyes wide still. Dean hands it to him and he holds it in his hands again, mumbling in his baby language, before he quietly mumbles clear as day “angel” actually to Dean it comes out like “ackngel” but Dean smiles wide anyway.

 

**

23 years later

Everything around Sam is dark as he looks up toward the night sky, admiring the stars and wonders of night time. They seem a little brighter tonight. Perhaps it’s because he’s alone to enjoy them or perhaps it’s because he no longer has to fear what’s underneath them. He’d taken pictures of the sky on the way to the bus station and he’s sure that they’ll turn out grainy and awful, but he smiles anyway.

 

The beauty of the night sky reminds him of the times when he was a child and Dean would show him all of the stars the sky held. There had been a turning point, and Sam had begun to teach Dean. He’d been so amazed. Sam had been over the moon when he made Dean smile, proud that he could finally teach his older brother something.

 

It also unearths a more recent memory for Sam, one much less pleasant. The smattering of stars in the sky resembles the pieces of broken clay after Dean had smashed the angel statue at the end of the hotel’s parking lot after learning of Sam’s plans. He hadn’t been livid, not like their dad had been and still was. Dean was petrified. Sam could see it in his brother’s eyes. He remembers the shock he felt when he saw the broken statue scattered across the black pavement.

 

It was also difficult to bend over with all of his belongings on his back, but Sam did, grasping a chunk of broken clay in his hands, a part of the intricately carved feathers. Most of the statue had been reduced to rubble and as Sam looked around the parking lot he didn’t feel the tears until they were dripping onto the ground. He’d looked back at Dean, who had already disappeared into the grimy motel room, leaving Sam alone with the shattered statue. Sam had walked down the street as the street lamps flickered on.

 

***

 

By the time Sam reaches the first time, the destroyed expression on his brother’s face is shoved into the back of his head, the train ride is easy and he almost proudly slaps the money down for his tickets and it passed by so quickly and soon the thoughts of monsters and

 

For Sam, being at Stanford is peaceful and exhilarating. It’s cathartic, being away from his father and older brother. He enjoys his classes and he loves that he doesn’t have to squat in miserable motel rooms, eating food that is either microwaved or from a gas station. His meal plan has food that he’s sure would make Dean jealous. He can almost picture him shovelling the food into his mouth, consuming it in his usual Dean fashion. Sam smiles through a mouth of mashed potatoes at the thought, a book across his lap as he studies for an upcoming test.

 

He has a roommate that reminds him of Dean and, honestly, it was part of the reason he’d chosen this dwelling. That and the fact that it’s close to the coffee shop on campus and close to the majority of his classes. It was also near, but not too near a the church in Palo Alto.

 

He no longer feels guilty going inside to admire the stained glass windows and the wooden pews. It’s truly beautiful, and he breathes easy knowing that he doesn’t have to worry about stepping off of hallowed ground for fear of some terrible monster tearing him to pieces.

 

He goes to the church briefly when he has time between classes. It’s then that he can relax and just pray, forgetting about Dean and his father, the school stresses, the guilt that clings to him because he’s worried that they were right, that he was abandoning them. The feeling fades a little over time as he excels in his classes , socializes, and can study without being chastised for doing so.

**

The days drift smoothly, in and out of one another as Sam tries to forget the horrible monsters from his previous life.

**

He meets Jessica at a diner south of his morning ethics class. There’s something that draws him to her; she’s like sunshine and diamonds, radiating light. He’s not sure what draws her to him. He’s nervous around her and gets butterflies in his stomach, sometimes feeling like they’re crawling into his throat.

He’d never been allowed to have a relationship. It was always too big a risk, putting the other person in danger. Now he can relax and enjoy the stars with someone he loves by his side and he can’t help but smile when he thinks of her.

**

The visions, the headaches, begin rather abruptly. The first one happens while he’s walking to one of his classes. He has Jessica’s hand in his and one second everything is fine but the next he sees one of his classmates perish before his eyes. He’s shaking and panicking .He remembers someone guiding him to a nearby bench so he can sit down. He’ grips his head in pain as he experiences what he’s sure are aftershocks and he can’t speak.

 

**

 

Uriel circles the golden table, his eyes squinting as if in thought. It would have been disheartening, but the superior angel has a look of irritation that never seems to fade despite the good news he’s been receiving. He stands taller now at the far side of the bright room, which is constructed entirely of gold and other precious materials that have yet to be named. They reflect brilliantly, making an unusual backdrop for the somber angel who is staring through the large, bay-like windows that overlook a central part of Heaven.

 

The larger angel shifts his position, completely losing himself in thought. Heaven and its large structures are relaxing and familiar; not a single human soul drifts amongst these parts. He prefers living amongst his brothers and sisters, despite the many that irritate him to his core. It is far better than associating himself with humankind.

 

Uriel moves his wings, which are long and a creamy, iridescent white. He ruffles them out, turning to the smaller angel in the room. He’d completely forgotten that he is standing there waiting Uriel’s undivided attention.

 

“Castiel, what do you need now? You’ve been pestering me for quite some time.” He stretches his wings again, expanding them to the full length of the room. It is amusing to intimidate the lesser angels. He sees that his action made its mark when Castiel’s bright eyes glint and he flinches, readjusting himself in the corner of the room. Even so, he straightens his own wings and asks his question firmly.

 

“It’s about the vessels. I have a question,” his odd voice intones.

 

“Well, Castiel, ask it then. I see no reason for you to stall,” Uriel says, sitting carefully at the table that spans the entire length of the room. He admires the designs that adorn the surface as he waits for Castiel to collect his words.

 

“Well, it seems apparent that there has been a change in schedule with the… two of them,” Castiel finishes awkwardly. His head tilts to the side and he clears his throat, staring curiously at Uriel as if waiting for him to read between the lines.

 

‘He is peculiar,’ Uriel thinks to himself. It is a difficult task but he’s learned to keep his thoughts to himself. It has proven to be beneficial when communicating and interacting with his younger brethren and superiors.

 

“Castiel, as you know, that is not my position to alter. I have no say in what does or doesn’t happen. It will just be,” he states.

 

“I’m aware,” Castiel replies. “Though I feel that if you said something it could shift their opinion. It is a monumental thing to ask. I am unable to do it on my own but I feel it is necessary.”

 

Uriel tries not to sigh. He hates when anyone pesters him, especially Castiel. It seems nothing is satisfactory and he is determined not to be silenced until he gets the answer he wants.

 

“Castiel, what you are asking is far more monumental than you seem to believe. You know how long we’ve been waiting for these two to be born. Raphael and Michael would not be pleased to find out that you wish to interfere with our Father’s wishes. What is it that you’d like to do, anyway? You already have your place in this plan,” he ends carefully, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

 

“Well, it seems likely that one of the vessels will be in a very… difficult situation. I fear he may need more guidance than we originally thought,” Castiel responds.

 

“How do you mean?”

 

Castiel shuffles a little on the spot and straightens out again, regaining the confidence he had earlier. “It is clear that the plan is extremely risky. We do not know that our current efforts will be enough to carry them to where they need to go.”

 

Uriel squints, trying to pick Castiel’s sentence apart for what it is really worth. “So you believe that these two cannot make it on their own? They are the destined vessels for the two most powerful angels in existence and you believe we should treat them as children and hold their hands along the way.” Uriel dares not say his true ideas. They are blasphemous beyond imagination and even though Castiel is inexperienced and perhaps shy− if angels can be- he wouldn’t let a comment like that slide.

 

Castiel stands his ground, his tone almost angry, “Just because they are capable of doing it alone does not mean they should have to.” The smaller angel expands his black wings so they puff out from his sides. He resembles a rebellious child. “No. I will not watch them suffer if there is something I can do to help. I’m sorry, Uriel, I cannot let that happen.”

 

Uriel rises from his position practically towering , striding over to Castiel. ‘Foolish,’ he thinks. Even as he gets close, the younger angel doesn’t budge. Instead he extends his dark wings out farther and glares at Uriel. The older angel unfurls his wings to their full length before speaking carefully and pointedly, “You will get your time in the spotlight, Castiel. Do not interfere where you are not desired. I suggest you keep your foolish requests to yourself in the future. This will hinder you in the long run.”

 

Castiel’s eyes are wide and a little fearful, but not as much as Uriel hoped they’d be. He is still in his aggressive stance and on his face is the glare he always wears. He swallows, folding his wings back again, but he is silent.

 

“They will be fine. Quit wasting your time with this kind of thinking. As I said, it will get you nowhere. Leave. Return to your duties,” Uriel says firmly. He barely blinks before the smaller presence in front of him vanishes, leaving nothing but a few black feathers behind. With Castiel now absent from the room, Uriel relaxes. He is nothing but trouble, and Uriel feels that it isn’t the last he will hear of this.

 

**

After that first instance, Sam’s sent to a doctor at Jessica’s insistence and is prescribed a severe pain medication.He’s told to tell anyone if he has any intense pain again and the medication doesn’t work. He feels bad lying to the doctors and Jessica but he knows that if he utters a word about what he’s truly seeing they’ll think he’s a psycho for sure.

**

He starts going to church more often again and prays almost every day. He prays to angels and anyone else he can think of, thanking them, praying the headaches will stop, praying for the safety of Dean and his father, who are still in the line of fire and the guilt haunts him but he buries it deeper until he can almost pretend it isn’t there

**

It takes a little while, but the headaches do ease up enough that it doesn’t take too much time away from his school work. Jessica still worries; he can sense her worry and despises himself for it. Sam hates troubling her and he doesn’t want to involve her in this. As much as he tries to convince himself that this is nothing more than stress and his imagination, he can’t help but feel like it’s something supernatural, dangerous, and the thought of putting her in danger makes him feel ill.

**

The weeks pass slowly and one particular headache strikes him hard and he’s left missing a major test. He lays on the couch in the apartment he and Jess now share, groaning and trying to keep himself anchored in reality. He drifts in and out of consciousness for what feels like hours. There’s cold water dripping in his eyes and when he blinks them open Jessica is sitting next to him, holding a washcloth to his forehead.

 

“Are you okay Sam?” her voice is full of worry and Sam’s stomach clenches in guilt.

 

“’m fine,” he mumbles.

 

“Alright, if you say so,” she says softly, smiling down at him. He smiles back, despite the jolt of pain that cuts through his head and fades away slowly.

**

His most heinous nightmare almost costs him his Sociology essay. He’s sucked into the nightmare; it feels so real he can barely breathe. He wakes up screaming bloody murder and his eyes are too focused, partially affixed to the ceiling, looking for a drop of blood to hit his forehead and the room to be consumed ravenously by unnatural flames. He can’t stand to face the horror, so he curls in on himself.

 

He can’t tell Jessica, he just can’t. It was a nightmare and nothing more. He repeats that to himself over and over, ’It was nothing more than a twisted dream ’ He tries to convince himself that he can protect her by not thinking about it.

 

She curls around him, holding  him close and he can feel the washcloth pressed to his forehead. He’d told her that it’s one of the only things that helps, one of the very few things that can ease the pain.

 

“Sam, is your head still hurting?” Jess sounds genuinely concerned.

 

Sam grumbled softly, ignoring the pain and hugging Jess tightly. Eventually he falls asleep and doesn’t dream at all.

 

**

 

There is a blaring sound and Castiel feels himself being thrown and tossed around carelessly. He walks in circles around his prison cell, trying not to scream and shout. He focuses on his grace, letting it rejuvenate him once more. Focusing on the power of The Lord, his Father, is the only thing that kept him sane, in spite of his undoubtedly wavering faith. He feels himself crack and he runs towards the small window in his cell, focusing on the heavenly light that is streaming through. Worn out, Castiel doesn’t have the strength or power to scream.

 

He isn’t sure if time passes correctly. After a while he’s lost all concept of time. At one point he starts wailing and crying, unsure who exactly he’s calling to. He’s using his true voice, wailing at a pitch that would normally break glass.

He doesn’t remember what happened exactly just walking away from Uriel and being suddenly tossed into the prison. The wall are stark white but aren’t necessarily perfect, there are obvious chips and cracks. The bars are black and from what Castiel can see there’s nothing on either side. His mind tells him there’s a hallway that he isn’t floating in oblivion, that’s he not alone but for some reason it’s hard to grasp.

**

Eventually he gives in and grows silent as he can feel his grace wavering and he just curls up onto the floor.

Castiel doesn’t try to escape either because he knows it hopeless, to fight or scream Heaven’s prisons are designed to isolate a being’s mind and essentially turn your mind on itself.

But he can’t give in and let the emptiness swallow him, he can’t because he’s going to get out of here. Somehow.

 

**

May 3rd, 2008

Sam’s never felt so disgusting, so empty and raw. Each shovel full of dirt nearly wrenches his shoulder out of its socket as he viciously tosses the dirt over and onto the grass behind him. He purposely positions himself so he’s facing away from Bobby and so he doesn’t have to look at the blood-stained sheet he knows Dean lies under. He gulps painfully and sways before digging the shovel into the tough earth beneath him. Sam leans on it heavily, like his whole damn life depends on it and he sobs loudly, almost collapsing face-first into the grave. Bobby stops him, his arms enveloping him quickly as he shakes and cries. He’s broken down like this twice in the past hour. It just gets worse and worse as the sun slips across the sky.

 

Bobby holds him there for several minutes and Sam grips onto him so hard that he swears he’s hurting him. Bobby doesn’t seem to care, just embraces Sam even more fiercely. He settles down, the rage settling uncomfortably back into his chest. It feels like he’s swallowed the sun and it’s burning his insides, making more tears form in the corners of his eyes. He shakes and swallows the feelings, pushing them deeper within him until it’s more of a numb feeling. Bobby lets go, his own face tear-streaked and miserable. Sam regains his composure quickly and returns to scooping the heavy dirt over his shoulder.

 

This happens several times over the course of the evening, which slowly bleeds into night. Sam hardly notices, instead focusing heavily on the striking pain in his shoulder and the dirt flying through the air, how it clogs his nose and chokes him. It helps keep him from breaking down and crying.

 

Finally he finishes, or deems it goodenough. He pulls himself out of the hole, grunting as he realizes how disgusting he truly is. He’s sweating so much his shirt is damp and he’s covered in careless cuts and bruises. There’s blood as well. Some of it’s Dean’s, some of it’s his and that thought alone almost breaks him again. He’s made it this far and only has a little bit more to go, he owes it to his brother to stay strong. He owes it to Dean.

 

He’s careful. They had to change Dean’s clothes and at that point Sam became completely closed off, not feeling awful or horrible, just doing what he feels Dean deserves. Sam holds his brother’s shoulders and scoops his arms underneath his legs. He climbs into the grave, laying Dean down in the cheap coffin they hastily assembled.

 

Bobby is as solemn as Sam and helps fill in the grave. Soon Dean is buried under mounds and clumps of dirt, like cascading snow, and Sam tries not to cry but he can’t help himself.

 

As he drives away, Sam unknowingly zones out, lost in thoughts of his brother, and when he drifts back into reality he swears loudly. His voice is rough from doing nothing but sobbing and screaming for several hours.

 

He’s been driving but he now has no idea where the hell he is. As far as he knows he’s still in Illinois, but he has no idea where and he can feel his heart thudding heavily in his chest. The cord of the necklace he’s wearing practically chokes him. It weighs heavily on his neck. He can’t even look at it but he doesn’t have the heart to take it off. He owes that much to Dean.

 

He turns off the road and suddenly he’s in the middle of nowhere. The tires of the Impala throw gravel and the car jerks up and down roughly. Sam can practically heard Dean’s scathing tone in his brain.

 

It’s almost enough for him to send his fist through the glass. He starts hyperventilating and opens the door with a familiar creak that makes his heart race even more. Before he can think of anything else he feels himself pass out on the rough ground.

 

**

Something large and massive rips through the pristine ceiling

There’s a screaming, violent and awful and it never ends. It’s one long sound and Castiel is absorbed in it as he falls, it’s strange there’s a larger force on him

It’s so overwhelmed he feels himself being tossed  by this magnificent being he doesn’t recognize is petrifying and Castiel is desperate clinging onto whatever limbs he can find. The being wraps it’s many limbs around his core and cuts off any hold he has, Castiel screams wrestling around to be freed, not caring where he may fall.

He witnesses the true form of what must be one of his siblings, it’s hard to tell when he’s so accustomed to being along. There are appendage of almost every creature. Birds wings flapping loudly in the empty, tentacles curling in all different directions and various roaring heads calling a chorus of cries into the sky . It changes abruptly curling into new beings and even Castiel himself is stunned to the point where he’s struck motionless.

Before he can even comprehend move he fills  it reaching towards his throat area and he’s still stuck as an ever changing limb, reaches inside him and grips his grace, his being entirely in it’s grasp and rips it out. The emptiness strikes him so much he feels like this thing is intending to tear him to pieces.

And the creature tosses him out of nowhere, as if he nothing more than a piece of dust

Castiel’s mind goes blank and he focuses on the emptiness as he falls, streaking through the star and sky

**

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

The smell of dirt is awful. It is heavy and thick, clogging Castiel’s nose where his face is pressed into the earth. He isn’t sure how long he’s been there, wedged into the undergrowth. It is blissful in the strangest of ways and he can’t bring himself to move. The twigs and branches of nearby trees are smoking, the tendrils twisting out of the corner of his eye. The ground hasn’t fared any better. The undergrowth beneath him is warm and blackened by his falling grace, which still burns his throat and abdomen as it dwindles away slowly.

He hasn’t even tried to move yet. It feels like every bone is broken, at least most, if not all. The feeling of broken bones is not one he is accustomed to. When he moves he finds only a strange, deep ache. There is no evidence of any broken limbs.

Castiel raises his head slightly, not surprised when it aches tremendously, as does the rest of his body. He shifts on the rough ground and from what he can tell, he is in the middle of the woods. His exact location is unknown. It appears to be early morning, or at least close to that time of day. He doesn’t hear anything, no sounds of the forest, no animals, not even the sound of wind in the leaves. It confuses him, but it doesn’t look like anyone is attacking or hunting him so he relaxes.

He groans as he adjusts his body. His skin is so sensitive. He can feel it touching the ground and dirt and sticks and leaves. Castiel feels the need to run his nails over the exposed skin, itching it fiercely. He is covered in scratches, which sting and ooze blood. It feels like he’s been scrubbed with sandpaper.

Between the itching, the sweating, the nausea that slaps him in waves, and his stomach both growling and burning simultaneously, Castiel takes time to carefully inspect his body. He is wearing clothes, but most of them seem to have burned away, leaving him in pants that are littered with massive holes. 

The exposed flesh on his thighs and calves is burned in gross red patches and feels numb. His entire torso is bare and uncovered. There aren’t as many cuts on his chest and stomach as there are on his legs, but there are enough that he wants to scratch them obsessively. A large burn covers his entire throat and chest. The slit on his throat where most of his grace is contained has scabbed over.

Castiel sways on his feet, wiggling his toes in the dirt. The ground is still warm where his body imprinted the soil. The branches he broke off of a nearby tree lay in a pile of broken twigs and wood fragments close to where he landed.

‘What now, though?’ he wonders, trying to ignore the buzzing pain in his muscles. He trudges through the trees, looking for anything that could be useful. He doesn’t have a weapon, which could be fatal later on. He scours the dirt for his angel blade. The knife-like weapon shouldn’t be hard to find, given its colour.

Castiel sighs and swears softly in Enochian. Of course he would lose his only weapon. It must have fallen to Earth but it could be miles from where he landed. He stalks over to his original landing place and studies the tree that has fallen. He places his foot on the bulk and snaps off a reasonably sized branch, luckily breaking it into a sharp spear shape. There is a sour feeling in his stomach at the thought of having to defend himself with it. It feels barbaric but the idea of being defenseless is even more nauseating.

He tucks the branch under his arms and adjusts his pants, or what’s left of them. He picks a direction at random.Eventually he’ll have to wander across a road or another individual.

The rustling of his feet is peaceful in the oddest of ways. He focuses on his footsteps and the various sounds of the forest. The rising sun filters interestingly through the trees and lands on his face as he walks under the leaves. Under different circumstances he would be able to appreciate the gorgeous day. The monstrous trees that surround him cease abruptly, leaving just dried pine needles, undergrowth, and pinecones.

Castiel squints in the sudden brightness. He has no idea where he’s landed. He did his best to aim for Pontiac but it is exceptionally challenging when you are basically crashing to Earth. When the trees clear they reveal a haggard looking road that curves around a small mountain. He walks toward it, jumping when his bare feet touch the hot gravel shoulder. The road is clear for as far as he can see. He wants to return to the familiar cover of the trees. The few hours he’d spent wandering in the forest has been therapeutic, the outside world is strangely frightening.

He looks around, his muscles sore beyond belief. He feels like he might collapse right where he is standing. Castiel looks at the ground around him. There is nothing comfortable to sleep on but at that point he doesn’t care. He pretty much falls into the dirt next to the road, holding his makeshift weapon close to his body as the world dissolves away.

**  
Sam’s tried to make a countless number of deals with crossroad demons, so many that he’s surprised that none of them have tipped off their superiors to come and tear him a new one. He’s enraged at how amused they are that he, Sam Winchester, is forcefully stepping up to take his brother’s place, or even go to Dean’s side. Some are even cocky enough to mouth off with a gun positioned several feet from their miserable heads.

One demon in particular tips Sam off the edge almost completely. It’s an especially cold night, one of the nights where he can still hear Dean’s voice mercilessly in his brain and the whiskey doesn’t take the edge off like it usually does.

They’ve just started and they’re violent and awful and sickening in every possible way. He swears he can’t remember the vile creature gripping to his wooden crib like a goddamn vulture. It’s so frightening and he tries to cry. He doesn’t understand how or why it works this way but he can feel the demon blood liquid down his throat. It’s only then that he comes to a realization that sickens him to his core.

There’s one stop, somewhere between Kansas and Illinois, where Sam experiments with anything and everything and he’s surprised his heart hasn’t stopped. But there’s one thing he hasn’t tried, one thing he tries on the off chance that somehow it will fix him.

It promises to make him big and strong, to make everything better. Dean will be alive and well, not burning forever, for eternity, because of him.

Somehow it gets worse. Somehow it’s harder.

He falls down the slippery slope and it just gets worse and worse and worse.

**

Castiel is awoken by the brightness of the sun and the sound of a car engine growling next to his ear. He sits up, rubbing his shoulder. The feeling of his battered body comes back into full focus, making him groan.

There is a large blue truck parked several feet away. From underneath Castiel sees feet step out and approach him so he tightens his grip on the broken branch. The man is paunchy and short, bearing a ball cap, a plaid shirt, and worn-out jeans. His eyes don’t match his demeanour. They are extremely uneasy as he approaches the ex-angel with careful steps. Castiel doesn’t realize that his lips are moving and he is trying to speak to him.

“Are you alright there?” the man asks. Castiel is confused. He is fully aware that he did not look anywhere near alright so the question seems unnecessary, but he answers anyway.

“Yes, I am alright. I am−” Castiel stops suddenly, noticing the man’s slightly shocked expression.

“Do you speak English?” the man intones slowly, adjusting himself like he’s speaking with an animal or a small child.

Castiel is beyond mystified but then it occurs to him, he’d been speaking Enochian out of pure habit. He clears his throat, “I’m sorry, my mistake. I just need to find town.”

The sense of relief is obvious in the man’s expression. “Well, let me give you a ride then,” he offers.

Castiel isn’t sure what to say. He doesn’t know where he is, so someone driving seems like a preferable idea. He nods as he stands up, realizing that he’s taller than the man. It’s peculiar, Jimmy’s body is far larger than he’d imagined, having seen no one else. “You are shorter than I am,” he says suddenly, giving the man a confused look.

The man just looks at him oddly. “Right,” he replies, a little confused as he climbs into the cab of the truck. Castiel follows, opening the creaky door and sitting down. The inside of the truck is comfy, he supposes. There are various charms and trinkets dangling on the rear-view mirror and the dashboard is full of wrappers and other types of garbage. Castiel glances out the window as the man makes a U-turn. “So what’s your name?” he asks.

Castiel thinks for a moment. Giving his real name doesn’t seem like a real problem so he simply says, “Castiel.”

“Religious family?”

“Yes,” Castiel answers. He’s not exactly sure what that means, but the man’s tone is carefree and joking so he assumes he’s just trying to make simple conversation.

“What exactly are you doing in the middle of nowhere?” His tone sounds a little suspicious.

Castiel has no idea what to say and telling the truth seems like a bad idea. “I don’t know,” he tells the man, “I just woke up in the woods.”

“Like this?” he says, gesturing to Castiel’s ripped clothing and battered appearance.

“Yes. I need to get to town my−” he pauses, unsure of what to say “−friend lives close. Are we anywhere near Pontiac, Illinois?”

The man gives him a concerned look but keeps his carefree tone when he asks, “Are you sure you don’t need a hospital?” As far as Castiel can tell, he sounds worried.

He isn’t sure what to make of it so he shakes his head, “My friend will be able to help me. Thank you for the offer, though. I am fine.”

“Alright,” the man shrugs a little indifferently. “And to answer your question we’re close to Joliet, so yeah. Luckily I’m heading out that way so I can get you there, no problem.”

Castiel nods, still unsure what to say. His social skills aren’t brilliant but he does know when he should be thankful. “Thank you, it means a lot.”

“It’s no problem,” the man says with a smile. Castiel refocuses his gaze on the window, praying that this truck will go faster somehow. He needs to reach Sam as soon as possible.

**

The dark liquid drips from Sam’s lips onto the grungy pavement. It burns his throat and makes his eyes water but leaves a sensation in its wake that makes him sway slightly. He relishes it. It’s difficult to do when he sees the mangled corpse at his feet, but it’s been so long since he last felt this clear and pure. His senses come back, slamming into him full-force. He feels the rough brick against his head where he’s leaning against the wall, trying not to vomit his guts out.

The night is cold, freezing actually, but his thick jacket his almost enough to protect him. He takes shaky breaths, focusing on the burning feeling of the night air and the sounds of the city. It helps, but only slightly. It’s enough to take the nausea away but not enough to keep him from shaking like a drug addict. 

‘Because you are,’ he adds hastily. He doesn’t try to crush the thought because it’s nothing but the truth.

He can smell blood. The metallic taste clogs his throat as he breathes in and out. It tastes awful, like something evil. Sam looks around the alley he’s in. He remembers walking in with the demon and then standing over him as he tore him to pieces. It’s a simple memory but everything in the middle is black.

Blotches appear along the edges of his vision and the world bleeds away for several seconds. Sam feels the wetness of the ground as he tips over. His head throbs steadily and the ground soothes it. Sam finds it hard to pull himself up but he has to because where there’s a dead body, authorities are only a sniff behind it and the last thing he needs is to be pinned for the murder of a demon.

Licking his lips, Sam closes his eyes and breathes in slowly. Blood coats his tongue and it’s ecstasy, easing the pain in his head slightly.

Looking down he realizes that he’s covered in blood. The dark stains cover almost his entire front, arms, and hands and he never thought to bring a change of clothes.

He shivers. He’s going to have to strip and get back to the hotel somehow. Sam feels his nose running and he sniffles, tasting blood again. The regret is starting to pool in his belly and the nausea comes back.

Sam ducks behind a wall that sticks out of the brick wall of the alley. He pulls off his shirt followed by his sweater. He’s shaking because of the cold and wipes his face and hands hastily as an afterthought. He feels like an animal as he huddles in the alley, cleaning the evidence of his crimes off of his face while he tries not to vomit the blood he’s ingested. The cold air seeps through the thin shirt he’s still wearing and it takes everything he has not to pass out on the cement. Whether it’s from the demon blood, the cold, or the fact that he cannot remember the last time he ate or slept properly, he doesn’t know.

‘You need to leave now,’ his mind screams and Sam stumbles out of the alley. He’s holding his clothes in a ball under his arm and as he leaves, all he hears is the crunching rocks beneath his feet.

The guilt and nausea come back suddenly and he nearly falls onto the sidewalk, barely managing to stay upright. Sam takes a look back at the mangled body. ‘I’m sorry. I really am,’ he prays to the angel he’s sure, at this point, have stopped listening.  
***  
A few days later Sam wipes the sweaty strands of hair that stick to his forehead. His hair has grown so long and matted that he can practically hear Dean screaming at him to “Cut the goddamn mop on your head!” which makes him less reluctant to cut it in case his brother’s voice vanishes entirely.

He’s sitting on the dirty floor surrounded by empty beer bottles and his almost empty flask near his feet. He needs to refill but he’s not coherent enough to walk straight, let alone approach and attack a demon to kill it in cold blood.

‘Focus Sam,’ he tells himself as the floor seems to tilt. He knocks over several bottles in order to keep himself upright and blinks sharply, pulling the lid off the box in his hand. The sides are rough and torn and he almost rips it out. He curses softly, he can’t ruin this, he owes this to dean.

He takes a swig of yet another beer, which leaves a warmth and fuzziness that made him anxious at one point but now there’s nothing but comfort in the way his mind blurs together.

‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.’ It’s a subconscious habit and he can feel bugs crawling under his skin when he thinks of angels watching him spiral slowly into madness. He no longer has the heart to actually express his feelings through prayers.

He doesn’t know if hell-bound souls remain on Earth or are like ghosts in anyway, but he doesn’t want to consider the fact that Dean is gone entirely. He just can’t. Some piece of him must have stayed with Sam like it always has.

He wraps his hand over the amulet around his neck, his fingers clasped around it. It’s all he’s got to hold onto now, the only tangible thing he has left of his brother.

Sam pulls the worn Ouija Board from the even more worn box and places it on the floor, grabbing the wooden guider and lining it up with the empty space on the board. He breathes deeply, trying to pick his words carefully.

He swallows nervously, stuttering slightly as he looks around the room as if Dean’s gaze is on him right now, “Um, ‘m sorry that this took so long, Dean. I haven’t been doing so great here.” Sam runs his hand through his hair again, heart thumping in his chest as the floor sways again. “I know it’s bad and ‘m real sorry. I will get you out, Dean, I promise.” His words began to slur and the familiar feeling that he’s about to pass out comes over him.He thinks he feels the wooden piece beneath his fingertips begin to shift.

There’s something he wants to say but the alcohol won’t let him get the words from his brain to his mouth. Tears drip down his face in frustration, there’s something he needs to say. He’s nearly shaking, waiting with his hands on the guider piece, hoping it will move, praying that it does, but it doesn’t. It stays completely still and Sam feels his heart drop as everything goes black.

The next morning is dull and colourless as Sam stumbles outside the abandoned building. He feels his hangover in his entire body, but his head gets it worst of all. It causes him to lean over and vomit in the grass. He struggles to keep most of his dinner, or lack thereof, down and he finally gets in the Impala, taking the Ouija board with him. He doesn’t have the guts to burn the damn thing so he shoves it into a corner of the trunk so he’ll never see it again and he can forget that last night ever happened.

Sam climbs into the front seat. A heat burns within his chest and shame envelopes his entire being.

**

Soon after they passed a sign that happily reads 'Welcome to Pontiac,’ the man pulls into a gas station. Castiel circles around the other side of the battered truck. It had not been as far as the angel had anticipated, but he was glad that he did not have to walk all the way. The man’s window is rolled down as he fills up the gas tank. He finishes and utters that he will be back in a second before leaving Castiel to himself.

The angel looks around at the landscape. He’s near a forest, about five minutes from the downtown area. He’s not exactly sure where Sam is located. He remembers the hotel vividly, however getting there is a whole other struggle. He wasn’t able to see much from Heaven, barely anything at all but he can remember vague shapes

He has no money, which is something quite vital now, something he hadn’t thought of.

Castiel waits patiently, trying not to scratch his various wounds. The man emerges suddenly from the store, holding several bags of what appears to be junk food in one hand and a few drinks in the other, which causes the angel to raise an eyebrow in confusion.

“Here,” the man gestures, placing the items in a plastic bag of food.

“You’re giving these to me?” Castiel asks, staring at the bag with a perplexed expression.

The man nods and tucks his wallet into his jeans. “I figured you’d need it if you’re planning to trek through Pontiac,” he replies before climbing into his truck,

Castiel is unsure what to say, not because of his unfamiliarity with proper social conventions but moreso because he’s unused to kindness, especially something so out of the ordinary. “Um, thank you,” he says.

The man smiles at him, “Take care, Castiel,” and he’s gone, leaving him with nothing but the food, the tattered clothing on his back, and a handful of crumpled dollar bills in his hands.

**

Sam is beyond exhausted as he stumbles into the motel room. It’sdark and somehow colder than the air outside. He searches blindly for his bag around the door. He grabs a shirt and his jacket and changes into them, not even bothering to take off his already dirty clothes. He collapses into bed, trying to pass out and forget.

‘Am I high right now?’ Sam can barely muster the thought. It’s quickly forgotten because he knows it doesn’t matter.

He feels awful just lying there, trying to fall asleep. The guilt is starting to sink in completely so he feels his way to the side of the bed and reaches for the bottle he knows is there. The cold surface is comforting beneath his fingertips. He finds the alcohol therapeutic and healing as he practically chugs the whole bottle. It’s cold as it fills his stomach. The nausea returns with frightening clarity and the dizziness overwhelms him, making him curl into the filthy bed sheets, moaning quietly.

His thoughts are mush at this point. It’s all utter nonsense and he keeps circling back to the same train of thought, which is conquering everything else. It’s getting much too easy to get over killing people. They’re demons, of course. The bodies the demons are in are innocent people. People who will never see their families again, and that thought makes him feel even more ill.

‘Stop, this never gets you anywhere,’ Sam reminds himself bitterly. Every time he goes on tangents like this it only leads to more alcohol and several times it had ended in punching walls and broken, bloodied knuckles.

His headache is getting worse and worse and the throbbing is so intense that even the whiskey can’t stop it. He pulls himself out of bed, the world tilting in its usual fashion before he feels the roughness of the carpet and the thump of his head on the ground. He grumbles, not even bothering to move. His head hurts far too much and it’s getting to the point where he could down several painkillers. Not enough to kill, but enough to sustain him, keep him vertical.

He’s so drunk that he begins to hear Dean’s voice in his head, ‘Sammy, did your ears pop on the way down?’ As if he doesn’t already have enough problems, now he’s hearing his brother’s voice. He groans.

His visions have ceased to nothing but major headaches and the occasional migraine, but in the past few weeks he hasn’t had any sort of premonitions. It’s both comforting and terrifying because there has to be a reason they’ve stopped, although he can’t exactly place what that would be.

The only thing that helps the debilitating headaches like this is showering, one of the very few normal comforts he relishes anymore. He usually stays in until the water runs cold which, admittedly, doesn’t take very long. 

Sam hauls himself off the floor and walks over to the small bathroom, turning on the water. He steps inside, the ache in his mind getting shockingly worse by the minute.

There’s a weight that feels awkward against his body and he realizes that he’s still in his clothes. He sighs, stripping out of the heavy wet clothes. They hit the tile floor with a loud slap and Sam relaxes, trying to enjoy the few minutes of peace.

The peace is very short lived. He’s disrupted by a pang that strikes him, almost making him collapse. It feels similar to a vision but the world has yet to bleed away into the premonition. He holds his head in his hand, turns off the water, and steps out.

He looks straight into the other room, avoiding the mirror at all costs. He hates seeing his hollowed cheeks and the dark patches that have permanently settled under his eyes. Then there’s also the amount of weight he’s lost in the past month alone. He’s obscenely tall, obviously, but now he’s skinny on top and makes him look like a dying tree.

**What Castiel thought would be a five minute walk downtown ends up being much longer. Everything he’s done so far has not been as simple as he’d expected. He’s heard the saying “it’s easier said than done,” and only now does he see it for what it’s worth.

His joints are beginning to protest as he climbs the most challenging part of the hill. He nearly forgets where he is for a couple of seconds, too caught up in the human feeling. He winces. It’s so unfamiliar and awful at the same time. He’s not sure how to handle it, really, but he trudges along, focusing on his destination. It’s a great strategy. The mental image swallows the agony in massive gulps and soon he’s practically running up the paved road and onto the crest that leads him closer to Pontiac.

It’s not until he reaches the first building that he realizes the weight of the supplies in his arms and, more importantly, how dry his throat is. It’s a flickering feeling, like a dying light bulb. He swears he can feel a growling in his stomach as well, but as soon as he notices it, it’s gone, leaving a dullness in its place.

The bright sun bounces off of the windows of the buildings as he makes his way down the street quietly, cautiously looking at the patrons he passes. He’s still so paranoid. How has no angel, demon, or creature come to tear him to pieces yet? It’s an enigma, one that he’d rather not learn the answer to.

Castiel’s not sure exactly where Sam lives in terms of address. The town is quite simple, with a large majority of its buildings clustered around the main area, where he’s currently located. He wanders around, vaguely recognizing certain things from brief glances through Jimmy’s memory.

There’s a large, multi-storey building with a sign he’s sure shines brightly at night. It runs along the length of the building. He glances up, peering carefully at the windows. He won’t be able to see Sam, he’s not sure which floor his room located on. Castiel adjusts the bag on his arm and goes into the shifty motel.

There’s a man who looks rather unhappy sitting at the front desk. He frowns even more as Castiel approaches. He raises an eyebrow, already looking immensely irritated, despite the fact that they haven’t even started a conversation.

“Do you know a man named Sam?” Castiel asked.

“Who?” the man at the front desk grumbles.

Castiel tries to think of a good description. “He is very tall and has extremely long hair,” he says.

The man’s eyes widen ever so slightly, “Oh, yeah, I know who you’re talking about. He’s on the third floor, very end of the hall.”

“Thank you,” Castiel nods, opening the door and continuing inside the building.

**

Sam holds his head in his hands, bent over the edge of the couch onto the floor. The ringing in his brain gets sharper and sharper as time stretches on. He almost can’t handle it and lets out a loud groan. Most of the time the demon blood prevents the severe migraines, one of its very few benefits, but now that it seems to have stopped, he could almost scream.

He lays there, curled into a ball on the couch, cushions over his ears to block out the ringing he’s sure is only within his own head. The ringing gets sharper and sharper until Sam’s sure he could pass out. He stumbles into the kitchen, grasping for his bottle of pain pills. He takes them quickly, settling back onto the couch. He turns on the television for some mild background noise to calm him down and help ease the headache slightly.

Usually at this point he’s used to the debilitating pain but this time the medication has done nothing to alleviate it. He’s so dizzy that by the time he goes back to the kitchen for a glass of water he nearly collapses into the refrigerator door, crying out in pain and holding his head.

Sam grasps for the flask that sits on the counter in the kitchen. He drinks it greedily and wipes his face with his hands, leaving red smears along his forearm. It tastes rich but bitter, like tea that’s too strong. Sam almost laughs at the absurdity of that comparison.

The metallic taste coats his throat and sinuses. Sam gladly grabs one of the many whiskey bottles that clutter the counter, tipping the meager amount into his mouth. It takes the edge off and the ringing subsides while he stumbles over to the couch.

The ringing stops abruptly and Sam’s left pretty much frozen on the tile floor where he fell and curled up. There’s a soft knock at the door, followed by a familiar rough voice calling his name, “Sam, please open the door. I must speak with you.”

Sam tenses, still feeling the aftershocks of the pain spike in his head. Even in his intoxicated state, he’s not foolish. He goes to his makeshift weapon safe and selects one of the matching shotguns he and Dean used to share, making sure it’s loaded. He tucks it into his waistband as he approaches the door.

He slides the chain into place and unlocks the various locks along the door before opening it a crack.

There’s a man on the other side, slightly shorter than he is. The man glances up and their eyes meet. Sam’s a little stunned. The man’s gaze is owl-like and that combined with the serious expression he’s wearing is enough to make Sam’s thoughts stutter together.

“Hello, Sam,” the man says simply, staring intensely into Sam’s eyes and his heart skips a little nervously. He doesn’t know who, or what, this guy is, so Sam decides it’s best to play this safe. He doesn’t answer, just glares at him in an attempt to wipe the serious expression off the man’s face. but his eyes narrow further, eyebrows raising curiously, “May I come in Sam?”

The politeness throws him for a loop as well, it’s been a long time since he’s seen a monster use anything that resembles manners. Sam keeps his face firm and undoes the chain carefully. 

The man doesn’t appear to be armed. In fact, he’s holding a plastic bag and that looks to be it. Sam hesitantly reaches for the weapon in his waistband but before he can grab it the man tilts his head to the side with a questioning expression. “I assure you, firearms aren’t necessary. I won’t hurt you,” his voice is somehow soft and genuine and rough all at the same time. Sam’s caught off guard and drops his hand instantly, staring at the man opposite him.

“Who are you? What are you doing here? How did you find me?” he tries to keep himself angry but there’s something so innocent about this man that he cannot.

The man walks in casually, placing the bag of what looks to be groceries down at his feet before facing Sam again. “My name is Castiel. I’m an angel of the Lord,” he says and Sam scoffs almost immediately, his face splitting into an amused grin.

Sam almost laughs, “Right, hilarious. What are you really doing here?”

“I assure you, I am an angel. I am here with entirely good intentions.”

“How am I supposed to believe anything you say?” he asks. His anger returns as something occurs to him, “How do you know who I am?”

“Sam, I know you do not lack faith. How I know you is not of import right now,” the man says it slowly, as if he’s a little confused by the question.

Now it’s Sam’s turn to look puzzled. “Fine.” He’s tired of this and if Castiel is who he says he is then Sam needs to see it. “Prove it. Prove you’re an ’angel’ then,” he says, using air quotes.

“Okay,” Castiel says simply, a pained expression crossing his face. Sam stares skeptically and in confusion. There’s a small flash of light and he covers his eyes. The glowing light is streaming from Castiel’s midsection and traverses along his neck and throat, illuminating his eyes and turning them electric blue in colour. Large black shadows appear on the wall behind Castiel and Sam gapes as the long shadows expand in the shape of what appears to be birds’ wings.

The light flickers and dies suddenly and Castiel looks completely exhausted. Sam’s focused every part of his being on convincing himself that this man in front of him is some sort of horrible monster, but something deep within him that’s been buried for a long time just can’t believe it.

Castiel is breathing heavily, leaning against the side of the wall with one hand before he slides to the floor, closing his eyes. He looks like he’s run a marathon and before Sam realizes what he’s doing he’s bending down and offering his hand to the angel, who stares at it unsure of what to do with it. Sam tries not to smile despite himself. “Do you need help?” he asks.

Castiel nods and grabs his hand, swaying as he gets to his feet. Sam leads him over to the dining room table and helps him sit in the closest chair before he pulls out the other chair opposite him, trying to settle his nerves, “Are you sure you’re okay?”

The angel just nods briefly, then adds, “I will need a few minutes to recover. I apologize.”

“Alright,” Sam says, wincing at how high pitched his voice sounds. He doesn’t know what to do with himself. He’s sitting at his own table across from an honest to God Angel of the Lord. 

Sam gulps nervously, “So you’re really an angel? Like, angel from Heaven and everything? Wow.” 

Castiel narrows his eyes in what appeared to be irritation, so Sam looks away anxiously. However, he doesn’t sound upset, “Yes, from Heaven. That’s where all angels come from, Sam.” It would have sounded snarky coming from anyone else but with Castiel’s voice it sounds like a genuine statement. Sam tries not to smirk.

“I don’t mean to be rude, but what are you doing here?” he asks again, trying not to faint considering he’s sitting not even five feet away from a real angel.

Castiel considers this for a moment, looking away as if he’s thinking hard about something. He answers simply, “To watch over you, to help you.”

“How are you planning to help me?”

Castiel looks at him closely. “Sam, you are in desperate need of help and I am here to provide it.” he finishes confidently.

Suddenly Sam feels self conscious. If the man before him is truly who he says he is, then he knows that Sam is an abomination. The words are a catalyst and interrupt Sam’s thought process somehow.  
“Look, I’m not sure I’m able to be fixed. More importantly, where the hell were you three months ago when I was dying in a ditch somewhere?” He yells, unsure where the sudden blast of anger came from or how he had the confidence to yell at a warrior of God.

Castiel looks away, guilt written across his face with a bit of pity mixed in as well. He clears his throat, “I was prohibited from intervening at that point, I deeply apologize. I would have come if I could, you have to believe me.”

Sam looks away too, feeling another headache coming on. He’s not sure if it’s from visions or from stress but he can’t bring himself to care at this point. “Why should I believe you want to help me anyway?”

“You always have, Sam. You may think that you haven’t, but you always have. Perhaps not me specifically, but you have always believed in angels and you always will.” Sam pauses, his anger draining slightly from the conviction in Castiel’s voice. He swallows nervously, waiting for him to continue, “You’re going to have to give me one chance, Sam. That’s all I ask of you.”

Sam looks at the “angel” in front of him. He doesn’t look anything like he’d imagined when he was young, bears no resemblance to the stained glass images he’d seen in countless churches and cathedrals. Castiel looks so ordinary with his tan jacket draped over his arm and his hair messy in the most human of ways. More important is the sincere look in his eyes. Sam buckles, sighing loudly. “Fine, Castiel the angel, how exactly do you plan on helping me?” He isn’t sure why he’s being so rude. All he knows is that he’s beyond exhausted, hung-over as hell, and doesn’t feel like dealing with another person who wants to take advantage of him.

Sam’s relief is short-lived when Castiel glares again. “Sam, I believe we both know exactly where you are in need of assistance.”

Sam looks away still not wanting to face the angel’s eyes he can almost feel him dissecting him with his gaze , “So how are you going to help me?” ‘I’m hopeless and helpless,’ he continues in his head.

“You’re not helpless, Sam, you made a mistake. It can be fixed, believe me.”

“You can read minds?” Sam asks stupidly.

Castiel manages a small smile, “No, not at the current time, but I can read expressions. Sam, you’re not hopeless. Will you let me help you?” The sincere, honest expression is back on his face. his eyes are rich with compassion and it looks like he truly cares. Sam hasn’t seen that look since− well, a long time. Too long.

“Where do we begin then?”

“Maybe you’d like to share why you started this… habit,” Castiel suggests, looking curiously at Sam.

Sam sighs. “I don’t know. I thought it could fill the hole I was feeling. It made me feel powerful, strong, like I could finally save my brother. It felt like it could fix whatever was broken in me and that I could take the darkness and finally do some good.”

Castiel looks perplexed. “You don’t believe you have already done any good,” he says.

It’s more of a question than a statement, so Sam explains. “I think I’ve outdone any original good I did. I’ve really dug myself a hole here.”

Castiel is still confused. “I do not think this situation can be measured scientifically or mathematically. These are not meaningless figures, but people. Sam, they can’t be cancelled out,” Castiel assures him. “However, if you wish to rescue your brother, I will help,” he continues.

Sam looks up at Castiel in surprise, hope filling his eyes. “How?” he asks.

“Well, the angels, they wish to let your brother suffer longer so they can break him and make him more pliable. By doing so, they can strip him from his humanity, and therefore his morals. It will take great effort to break your brother, but they will do it. They are essentially allowing him to be tarnished longer,” Castiel replies.  
And a s much as he hates himself for thinking it, the plan is thought out and clever. His brethren are thinking ahead, tinkering with their father’s plans quite viciously. He knows Sam would rip him apart it he said that so he stays quiet, watching Sam process the information.  
The dark lines on Sam’s face look more pronounced and he appears even more strained and weak. “So, essentially, they’re using him as a tool for their own agenda?”

“Yes.”

Sam has his head in his hands now. He looks up as he runs his hands through his hair. “Cas, how can we compete with hundreds or thousands of legions of angels? That’s not humanly possible. We can’t take that on by ourselves.”

“You are correct. However, there is one possible scenario,” Castiel tells him. “Hell is not secured as tightly as many people seem to believe. It’s quite easy to get into.”

Sam’s eyebrows perk upwards, “So you’re saying we stroll into Hell and just go ahead and pluck him off the rack and it won’t anger anyone?”

Castiel misses the subtle hint in the inflection of Sam’s voice that would have kept him from answering the question honestly. There is no way they could go unnoticed but it’s worth a shot. If they get a large enough jump on the angels then there’s a possibility they can do it. “No, I would not go as far to say that, but I think it is definitely worth a try. There is a chance we could free Dean from hell, Sam.”

Sam perks up and his eyes widen, the hazel colour so full of hope that Castiel’s heart twists in his chest. Why does it feel like he is lying when he truly believes that they could release Dean from hell? Perhaps it’s because he’s uncertain of how that would happen.

“So we bust him out ourselves. Beat the angels to the punch, then?”

“Precisely.”

Sam grins widely. It’s chaotic in a strange way. He jumps up and in one quick motion he scoops Castiel into his arms, wrapping his arms around the angel’s torso. A wave of exhaustion hits him and Castiel suggests that he try to sleep. Sam does so. With hope in his heart he finally manages to slip out of reality.  
***  
Castiel stands watch peacefully, comfortable with not moving from his position by the door. He is leaning up against the wall. It feels right to watch over something, to protect or guard something, even if in this case it isn’t some all-powerful, Heaven-borne entity, but just Sam sleeping on the couch about five feet away.  
Sam is sprawled across the tiny couch with his legs hanging off the end and his head crammed into the other corner. Castiel is completely clueless in the area of human anatomy in a practical sense but there is no way that the position is comfortable.

The angel adjusts his position by the door. He feels the urge to move Sam from his awkward position, to adjust him so he’s more comfortable but Castiel’s not used to contact in general, especially contact with humans.  
He decides to try it and shuffles quietly toward Sam. He’s still pretty relaxed but as Castiel reaches over to adjust his shoulders, Sam’s hand shoots up, gripping his wrist tightly. It seems it may be intentional to try to inflict pain. Castiel’s eyes meet Sam’s and the expression he finds is angry, or downright murderous.

The anger fades quickly though, and confusion sets in. “What the hell are you doing?”

Honesty seems like the best policy, or the only one, and Castiel sees no reason for Sam’s anger. “I was adjusting you. You looked uncomfortable.” He tries to keep his tone as mild as possible.

Sam just looks extremely agitated. He grunts as he turns his back to Castiel. The position looks uncomfortable as well, but the angel doesn’t move from where he stands. 

“Just don’t touch me,” Sam growls angrily, his voice muffled by the material of the couch.

Castiel decides to sit at the kitchen table, in the tiny kitchenette and he observes Sam sleeping, he’s sleeps peacefully otherwise turning his large body in the tiny space with ease and he’s sure that he hasn’t sleep this well in a while.  
**

Accidentally Castiel’s eye lids slide shut for the briefest of second and he hears a rustling, like a wild animal stumbling into the objects in the room and he blinks his eyes open suddenly seeing the large frame of Sam’s shoulders stumbling around and he’s drunkenly grabbing on the wall and making his way towards the door.

“Sam?” but he doesn’t listen at all and instead, attempts to get the door open but Castiel can already guess his goal.

The angel has no other decision, he can’t wait for Sam to come to realization and instead he reaches Sam in a few shorts strides who appears to be drunk and completely and totally out of it and just barely out consciousness.

Sam suddenly gets angry, swinging angrily at the angel and it’s such a completely different individual that Castiel is caught off guard and holds his fingers over on his forehead and Sam drops like a stone to the rough case.

Castiel considers him carefully and looks down sadly , picking up Sam in his arms and carrying him outside

 

**


	3. Chapter 3

It's a disaster, at least from the outside. As far as he can tell, the structure is sound although the wood is peeling grotesquely in large slivers. There are planks missing in certain areas, which gives it the illusion of missing teeth.

All but one of the windows are shattered. Looking at the torn apart house he can't help but think he's overlooking an obvious metaphor. He’s not sure how he discovered such a decrepit place but he’s blessed that he discovered it in the first place.

The door creaks openly loudly and Castiel sends it flying into the opposite wall, Sam weighing heavily in his arms. He shuffles around the unfamiliar place in the dark and when he turns there’s a large kitchen. It’s completely falling apart. There’s a staircase, leading to the basement. It’s dark and very dangerous looking but Castiel proceeds anyway, still carrying Sam in his arms.

This is the first place he happened to find. He’s still disconnected and with his power practically running out. He couldn’t afford to teleport them both, so he was forced to drive here in a car, an Impala, as he’s learned, forced to take back roads so they wouldn’t be seen.

***  
One morning, Castiel wakes up next to something soft and he realizes he’s still on the rough concrete floor, which is freezing underneath him, with Sam leaning slightly on his shoulder. There’s morning light streaming through the small window in the darker room. Only upon waking does Castiel realizes the soreness that lingers in his joints and the numbness that follows tersely as he moved to get up from his spot on the floor.

Perhaps it’s the stillness, or the strange illusion of peace, or the fact that he’s gotten some decent sleep, even though it’s on a concrete surface while crunched against Sam, but it’s tranquil for some reason.

After some careful manoeuvring he manages to get himself from underneath Sam and into the large part of the basement area. This house seems to be growing on him and he can’t shake the feeling of becoming strangely sentimental. The feeling is strange, and the odd creak that echoes as he exits to go up stairs just makes him think of the first time he and Sam arrived in the dilapidated home.

Castiel is upstairs, being very careful with his time and footsteps. He makes sure to be fast enough and quiet enough as to not wake Sam, who needs to sleep.

It’s colder this morning and Castiel feels uncomfortable in his, Jimmy’s, suit. It was warm at first but now he feels the chill beneath his skin. The basement is far worse. He’d still prefer the cold, enclosed space. For some peculiar reason it makes it easier for him to think.

The angel grabs the keys from where they hang on the wrecked key rack near the door. The jingling echoes loudly in the silence, and the creak of the door is even more significant. The outside air is frigid, which is unusual for September and he subconsciously wraps his coat tighter around himself. 

He opens the Impala’s massive trunk, looking at the random personal items Sam seems to have thrown everywhere and anywhere. He grabs the bag that must belong to Sam and opens it up to reveal the various clothes he’s kept. Castiel grabs some of the clothes, taking off his trench coat and suit jacket.

It is peculiar. He is technically disconnected from the Host, which makes it very hard to receive prayers in general. He can still hear some. They’re more like tiny whispers in the back of his brain and they’re all from Sam. Mostly it is garbled nonsense, the only coherent words are constant stream of I’m sorry, and please forgive me. 

Castiel feels like he is trespassing somehow. Even though Sam is praying openly asking anything with ability to hear, it still feels like the angel isn’t meant to eavesdrop.

Sam’s wails and screams leak through the thick cement wall, again like the prayers, drifting in and out. Castiel is thankful that they are secluded like this, especially with Sam screaming bloody murder for most hours of the day. 

“Please Cas! Let me out please!” the end is partly cut off as if Sam can’t physically force the words out and Castiel flinches from his position at the table but he doesn’t get up, even when Sam screams loudly again.

“Castiel, please I’m sorry”

“Let me go!”

“Cas!” 

The angel fiddles with the watch he picked up from a thrift store, setting it to go off every hour so that he can check on Sam. It ticks away, displaying he’s about 20 minutes away from his designated check-up, but he can’t sit still. He needs to distract himself with something to do.

He immerses himself in the various newspapers scattered across the rickety table’s surface. He had thought it would be beneficial to know more about the surrounding area and, as Sam had advised previously, it didn’t hurt to “go on a milk run” once in a while. Castiel had been, and quite frankly still is, confused by the statement but, as Sam clarified, he wanted him to look for simple cases to keep the two of them busy.

He’s brushing through a pretty intriguing article about a long string of murders that occurred a very innocent household. The locals were and still are confused by the sudden intensity and viciousness of the killings but the evidence, or lack thereof, suggests otherwise. The angel is very immersed when he notices how effortless it is for him to do so. The air around him is quiet, not punctuated by screams.

Sam is completely silent.

Castiel rushes from his seat and unlocks the door with the key from his pocket. It creaks loudly and light from the outside slices through the dimmer light of the room. From where Castiel is standing, Sam is nowhere in sight.

“Sam?” he calls. There’s no answer so Castiel rushes in, soon realizing why he was unable to see Sam when he first came in. 

Sam’s large bulk is crammed into the farthest corner. He has his back to Castiel and his hands are wrapped around his knees. His face is pressed into the cement wall and Castiel can’t tell if he’s breathing.

Castiel approaches carefully, not really sure what to expect. His shoes make grating sounds as he creeps across, trying to be as careful as possible. He’s about a foot from Sam when he bends over, noticing the shaky rise and fall of his chest and the blotches of dampness between his shoulder blades.

It happens so quickly that he barely catches himself.

Sam’s flings his entire body into Castiel’s and they both crash to the floor. With Castiel pinned on the cement floor, Sam strikes him in the face, smacking into his cheekbone. He feels the harsh sting that emanates across his neck and collarbone. He buries his oncoming shriek but before he can, Sam pulls him to the cement floor with his hands wrapped around his neck, forcing him closer to the ground.

“You’re not real, you son of bitch! Fuck you!” Sam moves to straddle his chest, pressing on his ribcage. Castiel is startled by the sudden and increasing pressure. Fuzziness starts weighing on his head.

“S-S-Sa.” He can barely choke the words out as Sam’s grip tightens around his throat, his eyes wide and bloodshot. Castiel swears for a second that blackness fills their entire chaotic surface, creating a strikingly haunting image. In the brief moment he does observe, it’s a small comfort to know that this anger and sheer murderous rage is because of a demon, an outside source and not from Sam himself, the soul he is told not to save. 

It’s in that brief moment of clarity when Castiel drives his knee in Sam’s stomach. Sam doesn’t budge and tightens his grip on the angel’s neck. He’s caught and black spots bleed across his vision and the world floats away. All he can sense is the obscenities being hurled at him angrily from Sam’s mouth, (fuck you, you dirty son of a bitch, you fucker) it’s only then he wonders: can he actually die like this or will he simply wake up again? Will he be in an endless loop of being strong enough to only be knocked unconscious but not weak enough to die?

He can’t suck any air in at this point, he’s only making strangled choking noises as he watches Sam gaze angrily at him, tightening his grip even more. Castiel makes eye contact with Sam, staring intently into Sam’s eyes, begging and searching for a shred of humanity or remorse but he’s met with animalistic rage. He has only one option now. It’s a dangerous and risky one. He only thinks about it for a second before he summons the residual grace that will always remain within his being, despite being disconnected from the heavenly host.

He feels the burn deep within his chest and it resonates up towards his face, bringing the harsh heat which almost knocks him out. He stays true, holding the energy until the light glows from his chest. In one simple thought the light explodes in a burst of energy, throwing Sam from his body and electrically charging the air with small blue sparks. 

Castiel holds his chest, sucking air deep into his lungs. It burns intensely. He checks on Sam’s slightly unmoving form before he dashes out of the door, slamming it behind him and collapsing on the other side.

That night Castiel can hear the broken prayers fill his head like high keys on a piano. He can feel Sam practically sobbing in the next room as he apologizes over and over again. He doesn't slam against the door or scream violently to be freed, instead he just cries and confesses openly like a broken child.

Being in Sam's presence for only a short amount of time, Castiel can see how expressive he truly is. He can only assume that Sam's always been this way. One thing is he can feel bursting from Sam’s words is how hopeful he is deep inside, even if his outer appearance speaks otherwise.

Castiel can feel the belief interwoven in Sam's words. Even as he apologizes for what could be the hundredth time Castiel can still feel the power behind the words. Sam believes in angels, that they are holy figures or soldiers of righteousness, the true keepers of peace and order. 

He believes in Castiel and the angel feels like he’s blushing, as strange as it sounds. When Sam finally addresses his prayers directly to him he talks about how lucky he is to have him here and how he's abusing not only the miraculous opportunity but the angel himself.  
***  
Sam wakes up in a blurry dark room. It smells of mould and the dirt that clogs his nose. When he breathes in, it causes him to choke as it fills his mouth and nose. He coughs loudly, his chest rattling, sending flares of pain through his body. He doesn’t realize he’s wrapped in blankets until he shifts and tries to free himself. He can’t move his limbs; they feel numb. Sam attempts to move himself into a sitting position but the world sways as he does so and he feels nausea climbing up his throat.

There’s a rustling near the edge of the room and pretty soon it’s flooded with a soft light that only comes from outdoors. He squints and groans, turning his head away from the light,.

“Sam? Are you awake?”

Sam feels the urge to mumble but his dry throat causes it to deviate into dry coughs that leave him hacking. He can feel a hand rubbing his back softly and Castiel’s soft reassuring words resonate near his ear.

“What time is it?” Sam asks.

Castiel looks oddly at Sam for some reason but answers in a passive tone, “It’s five in the afternoon. Only a day has passed since you last woke up, if you’re wondering.”

Sam perks up at that; at least his concept of time isn’t as deviated as he previously thought. The days are moving sluggishly but they seem to be moving reasonably as well. At that thought he attempts to stand, uncurling himself from the blanket despite the pain. There are large patches that form perniciously around his memory and the sudden blackouts are a little traumatising. He can remember meeting the angel Castiel, but everything before that seems to be very blank and vast, even when he tries to reach for it. He’s so lost that he doesn’t notice or feel Castiel grab his shoulder gently and settle him back onto what appears to be pile of blankets stationed on the floor.

“I do not think that is wise,” Castiel says solemnly. Sam’s not entirely sure what to make of the statement but he doesn’t try to get up again, instead focusing pretty much all his efforts on not coughing his lungs out.

Castiel leaves the room, returning with a bottle of water in his hands and gives it to Sam carefully. He takes it, trying to hide the shaking in his hands and drinks a sip. It works wonders on his throat and truly makes him realize how little he must have drank in the past few days. He sips it greedily, eventually drinking the entire bottle and giving a small burp at the end, which earns him a small, if brief, smile from Castiel.

“Thanks, Castiel.”

“You are welcome, how are you feeling?”

“Okay. I’ve been a lot better, but I’m fine.” There’s a sharp ringing in his ears that won’t let up and he is sent back to thousands of memories of him being horribly ill as a child with Dean standing right beside him, always nursing him back to health. He remembers how agitated and nervous his brother would become as Sam continued to get more ill. It was a comforting feeling to always have that weight there to lean onto.

He has this sudden feeling of emptiness. It’s so sudden and violent that he can feel himself beginning to shake and his breaths become shorter as he pictures his brother clearer. Suddenly Dean’s sitting right next to him as if he materialized there. Sam is confused at first, looking at his brother whose gaze is focused solely forward. Dean’s sitting in his usual position, ready to strike at a moment’s notice, in a crouch that shouldn’t really be considered sitting.

Dean finally gazes at him and Sam freezes where he’s sitting, his breath almost stilling. Sam’s simply taken aback by how normal and put together his brother seems.

Dean sighs next to him and Sam turns towards him, slightly surprised when he can’t move the entire way. He ignores it, instead focusing on his brother, his heart slamming in his chest.

“Dean, are you okay? Why are you here? H-how did you g−” but before he can complete the sentence there’s a soft click and he can feel coolness in the center of his chest, right near his breastbone. He’s puzzled and looks down to see the end of a pistol pressed against his chest.  
And he screams.  
***

Castiel swallows bitterly as he observes Sam’s gaze slowly and carefully drift away from his own. It is so subtle that the angel barely notices. Sam hardly notices when he attaches him to the pipe that runs along the back wall of the room. Castiel sighs solemnly and turns away from the door as it softly clicks shut. He glances around the chipped paint, the peeling boards, and the wrecked furniture, beautiful in another time. 

He thinks of the wrecked version of the house and how crumpled and awful it seems that someone had left it to turn this way. It is more pleasurable to focus on the decaying state of the house than to focus on Sam, who is slowly breaking down behind the door. There’s a quiet muttering that he can’t quite place. It sounds like Sam is speaking very softly and delicately, as if he’s persuading.

Castiel presses his ear to the rugged wood of the door; he can hear the exchange more clearly now but not perfectly. He carefully grips the handle and pushes the door across the uneven floor. It gets caught and he shoves it squarely with his shoulder, which causes it to go flying too fast and out of his grip, creaking loudly and generally making a loud awful sound. Castiel winces but, given Sam’s current expression and more importantly his lack of movement, he’s not focused on anything in reality.

“...I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it please forgive me,” he mutters, the words are mashed together and child-like. It’s so unlike the Sam he had been only moments earlier that it’s startling. Castiel sets his gaze on Sam, who’s staring near the half broken window. The expression is focused intensely on a space in the distance that the angel can’t see.

Sam is beginning to cry now, the smudges under his eyes and cheekbones in contrast with the pallor of his skin make him look very dramatic.

Castiel is torn between wanting to help and letting this hallucination run its course. He’s only witnessed two hallucinations so far, but for some reason this one latches onto him and he can’t be pulled away, even by his instinctual logic.

Sam’s much like a deer, in that he looks traumatized and is shaking slightly curled on the floor, looking very terribly small, muttering strange sentences and odd out of place phrases of forgiveness. He’s trembling to the point of almost knocking the blanket from his frail shoulders but Castiel grabs it carefully, adjusting it so it’s nestles in the crook of his neck and doesn’t slide. Sam barely registers the touch but Castiel feels brief warmth inside.

“Don’t you say those things to me, please Dean you can’t say those things, I can’t−” Sam just crumbles at that point, folding until he’s a mass of blankets, clothing, and haphazard, messy hair. He folds and shakes and Castiel pats his shoulder. Knowing that this mirage has something to do with his brother is a very staggering factor. He doesn’t know what to do and feels bad despite himself.

So he does what only he knows how to, he tries. Castiel is clueless about how humans value contact and how they see it as a coping mechanism, but it somehow feels right to unfold and search for Sam’s hand in the bundle of blankets and enclose it in his own, holding it tightly as he dares with Sam in this fragile state, enough to make sure he’s aware. It feel great to know that he’s helping, telling Sam he’s real and he’s here and despite whatever horrible imagery flickering by his eyelids and shouting in his brain, he’s staying to guide him out.  
***  
There’s a striking light from the sky, which could have been mistaken for a lightning bolt to anyone else. Any other individual on the planet would have shrugged it off, seeing it as no more than a consequence of weather, but Castiel knows better than to consider other natural options. He’s sleeping next to Sam again. He’s similar to a heater in that he’s just shooting off waves that make Castiel warm by just sitting next to him.

The light flickers dimply through the very rough looking ceiling, followed by a muffled thunderous noise and the indirect sound of footsteps. Perhaps he’s just hallucinating; it seems too strange. 

Sam is still unaware of what is happening, curled in blankets and layers of clothing and jackets, peacefully asleep. From what the angel understands it’s been only days since he last drank demon blood. He doesn’t know how this mess is going to affect him in the long term. He’s worried despite himself, like he’s volunteered to carry a weight he will drop almost immediately. He’s not sure why he’s thinking of this while he awaits the impending confrontation from outside, knowing he is in no position to do anything.

There’s a rattling coming from outside, like the smacking of windows and general debris being strewn about. Castiel shudders where he sits, pulling Sam closer to him in a way he knows won’t be helpful at all. 

There’s the crackling again and the sound of a very large being crammed in a space far too small for its size. There’s smashing and breaking of rather human things, wood, windows, and Castiel suddenly remembers pretty much everything he currently owns is out of there at the mercy at one of his brethren.

Sam chooses that moment to blink his eyes open, moving very fast out of Castiel’s reach as he scoots into the corner. There’s a madness deep within his eyes for several seconds before his vision clears significantly and he settles more comfortably against the floor, looking back at the angel.

“What is that?” The rustling has quieted significantly, now resembling a larger dog rather than a lion or a bear. Castiel stares at him stiffly; he can’t communicate or hear thoughts much anymore but he hopes Sam can catch the meaning in his eyes. 

Luckily, Sam seems to catch on fast, his face settling into a mask almost and he’s careful when moving closer to the angel.

Sam reaches behind him and Castiel keeps his eyes on the door; there’s a rustling behind the angel and he resists the urge to turn and check, instead centering his focus on the noise beyond the very thin door.

Sam has a rock clutched between his shaking hand, writing in even messier script on the floor, “ANGEL?” His eyes are wide and on Castiel, who grabs the rock, writing a simple question mark. He’s unsure if it is an angel exactly there are a number of things it could be,. He isn’t sure.

Castiel’s eyes dart around the room. There’s no reasonable way out and he isn’t powerful enough to escort both him and Sam out of the room. The idea is imminent before he can even think: he may not be able to get them both out, but he can get Sam out if he tries hard enough, maybe.

Sam’s eyes widen and Castiel isn’t sure what to say so he leans over, whispering in his ear. He can see how oddly Sam stares back. Sam is not the most mentally stable individual in the world and he would rather venture on his own but he can’t bear the thought of leaving Sam to mercy of the creature outside the door.

Still Sam nods, looking determined about his mission. Castiel looks down solemnly, placing his fingers on Sam’s forehead. There’s a crackling in his brain, the brief and unsettling return of angelic voices is debilitating at first but he shoves it down, instead focusing his remaining energy. There’s a brief flash of light and Sam vanishes from sight. Hopefully he has reached the outdoors.

Castiel’s boldness lets him charge the door, having to slam his entire shoulder into to free it from its position.

The creature is standing in the middle of the room and Castiel concludes that it is indeed an angel. He’s completely clueless to its identity but it’s clear that whoever it is is not here to be careful and concise.

He or she is wearing what appears to be a female vessel. He doesn’t bother absorbing any details beyond that, only focusing on reaching his angel blade which he foolishly left sitting on the small table in the middle of the room. 

The angel watches him carefully and oddly, not raising a hand or moving a muscle, rather almost perceives him as if he’s truly brilliant, which is odd to consider.

The question is on his tongue and he almost asks, almost engages with his sibling but stops himself, crushing his internal ability to reach out, to be kind, only focusing on the mission ahead and saving Sam.

He’s quick and there’s a violent flash of light that seems to settle itself within every part of the room. It causes black spots to form against the angel’s vision, which is unusual, and the other angel drops to the floor.

Castiel is confused by the exchange, but he focuses on Sam, hopefully sitting in the car e. grabs his bag and Sam’s from the table, racing outside across the creaky, echo-y floorboards.

Castiel is more than thrilled to find Sam sitting in the front seat of the Impala. Before Castiel can even settle in properly he’s speeding away from the abandoned home, the Impala’s engine roaring. Sam glances back, his eyes wide as he looks back towards Castiel, who’s flushed red from the cold and the act he just committed. He’s practically hyperventilating, the adrenaline finally hitting him, and he grips the door harshly.

Sam is the first to speak and the angel is shocked that he’s not asking a flurry of question that would shoot out at Castiel like punches to the stomach. But his inquiry is still shocking. “Are you okay?”

Castiel has been shaking against the seat and he’s not sure what to say so he shakes his head. Sam’s eyes are still quite wide and filled with concern and worry and Castiel is nearly caught off guard. He’s lost his ability to speak.

Sam just nods and swallows carefully, as if he wants to ask more but he frightened for some reason. They’ve been driving for around 10 minutes ;most likely breaking several speeding laws in the process, before Castiel can discover his words. “That was an angel. I believe that angel is searching for me or for us, or for someone, I honestly can’t say.” 

“I hate to say this but where do we go now?”

 

“I think it would be wise to go to a hotel.” Sam nods and Castiel can see how exhausted he is. How he’s even driving is a mystery to Castiel but he somehow extends naturally into the car. He can see the somewhat maddening expression and shaky hands steady as he drives through the small cities and cruising to music. Castiel finds it to be quite soothing, in a particular way.  
***

Sam stumbles from car, almost tumbling into the hardened ground of the parking lot, before he struggles to get to his feet, glancing back at Castiel almost sheepishly. The air is still bitter outside and it cuts unpleasantly into Castiel’s lungs.

Castiel enjoys the feeling of finally finding a place where he can be warm and, more importantly, have a source of running water, something he wouldn’t have considered only several weeks prior. Sam grabs his bag, handing the other heavy weaponry bag to the angel. He tries to hide the obvious effort it takes to walk and by the time they reach the hotel room door, Sam is stumbling behind but still doesn’t ask for help.

He settles in quietly, relishing in the comfort of the sheets, even if they are old and smell very unusual. It’s marvelous to be able to relax on a floor that isn’t concrete. Castiel is lost in the vastness of relaxation when he hears a violent retch from the bathroom.

Castiel is up in an instant, running to the bathroom despite the dizziness that sickens him as well. He sees Sam leaning on the bathtub, vomiting yellow coloured liquid onto the yellow tinted tile. 

It’s a painful sound and Sam looks far more haggard. There’s a break in the vomitting and he turns to Castiel with that same apologetic expression. How someone who hasn’t eaten the past few days had the ability to produce so much from so little is strange to the angel standing there.

He doesn’t say anything, just gives that same saddened expression that he’s been wearing since Castiel met him only a week or so earlier. He’s not sure where his regret is coming from but he feels the need to comfort and he does exactly that.

Kneeling down next to Sam, he rests his hands between his shoulders, rubbing it softly. Sam relaxes against the touch and rests his sweaty forehead against the rough edge of the tub. He sighs solemnly, obviously focused on not being ill. He pulls himself upward. “Thank you, Castiel.”

Though he’s done nothing worthy of thanking, Castiel utters, “You’re welcome, Sam.”

***

The morning starts out serene so far as Castiel can tell. Sam wakes of his own volition. Castiel merely sits on the couch and observes the outdoors through the small window. It always manages to relax him but he can’t relinquish control of his body and mind completely. His mind is too preoccupied with Sam.

Sam stumbles out of the bathroom, a towel hastily wrapped around his waist. Even from where he’s sitting, Castiel can tell how blank and yet sad Sam’s eyes are. He passes quickly, ignoring the angel’s presence entirely, and slips into the bedroom, closing the door quietly.

The TV becomes background noise as Castiel waits to hear Sam collapse or start screaming, but thankfully he can hear Sam rustling and the movement of clothes. Castiel relaxes against the grungy material of the couch. He relishes in the feeling of resting his sore muscles against the softness behind him.

Sam emerges from the bedroom around five minutes later. He’s dressed relatively nicely and Castiel regards him carefully, “Good Morning Sam.”

“Mornin’,” he replies dully.

Sam sits roughly on the couch, letting his whole body drop into it. He slouches, his wet hair still clinging to his forehead in matted clumps and the edge of his shirt is dark with the dripping moisture. 

He doesn’t turn to Castiel at all but from here Castiel can see the darkness forming under Sam’s eyes and shallowness of his cheek.He looks blankly at the TV but his mind is obviously far away.

Upon closer inspection, Castiel can tell that Sam’s skin is still flushed and red. He can only imagine why that is. He looks downright miserable as he stares emptily at the television screen.

Castiel’s not sure where it comes from, but before he can question the sudden unusual urge he’s shifted towards Sam’s side of the couch.

“Cas, what ar−” Castiel cuts off Sam’s question by wrapping his arms around him, twisting so that his head is resting on Sam’s shoulder. Sam seems to be very strongly against it and it throws the angel off a little.  
Sam isn’t exactly aware of what was happening at that time and any sort of comfort is meaningful, no matter the source.

Sam stiffens against him and Castiel answers his unfinished question, still wrapped tightly around him. “I’m hugging you. This is the part where you hug back, from what I’ve observed.”

He can feel Sam’s hesitation but his arms eventually wrap around the angel’s shoulders, squeezing tightly.

Castiel moves backwards, untangling himself from Sam. He moves back to his side of the couch, looking at Sam again, whose skin is still flushed. Now he’s bright red, his cheeks especially, and a small smirk is visible on his face. Castiel has a feeling it isn’t from the shower.

They spend a little more time watching TV before they decide that they should keep moving to ensure they aren’t found again. Once everything is packed up, they get into the Impala and race off of the parking lot for the open road.  
***  
Apparently living out of the Impala is far more difficult than Castiel originally imagined. He’s settled nicely in the front while Sam takes up the entire back seat. Both of them agreed without having to say very much that it would seem to be the best option. Sam practically passes out immediately, having been startled awake only several hours prior. 

It makes Castiel peaceful because Sam looks so happy when he’s sleeping. In fact it’s the only time he ever looks happy, with the slight rising and falling of his chest and his face slack. It’s hard to miss the dark smudges permanently affixed under his eyes and along his cheekbones.

Castiel lets Sam sleep because there isn’t much else for either of them to do at the time. Driving would only waste gas and therefore money. Neither one of them has eaten much, besides stopping at a few gas stations.

The uncomfortable rumbling in his stomach keeps Castiel in reality. He tries to sleep but it simply won't happen. He tries to close his eyes but his brain is refusing to let him to relax. Even though the day is still early; the inky black clouds that haunted the sky yesterday have all but vanished, leaving a very blank sky that is pleasant to look at.

He makes an attempt to re-organize the Impala. Due to their rather hasty retreat, various items had been tossed carelessly over the surface of the seats and floor, creating the feeling of clutter which didn’t sit well with the angel. Sam had fallen asleep all over the back seat, on several books and papers with his bag tucked underneath his chin as a pillow, his arms is wrapped around it tightly.

The rest of the assortment of items is just stacks of various notes and older texts that Sam had seemly acquired from nowhere but had proved useful nonetheless. Castiel stacks them carefully, placing them under the dashboard in the passenger’s seat. ‘

The various papers are a conundrum in and of themselves and he doesn’t even bother to sort the various notes but merely gently places them on top of the Impala’s dashboard, figuring Sam will get to them later.

Once he’s sorted out the general mess, Castiel moves onto the garbage, the fast-food wrappers and coffee cups, the odd newspaper and magazines that scatter the floor, back dash board, and the seats. 

Sam sleeps soundly still, not particularly bothered by the angel’s presence or shuffling. He seems perfectly okay so Castiel scoops the trash into his arms, opening the Impala’s creaky door so he can throw the trash away. 

Castiel opens the door again, slipping into the front seat and glancing back at Sam, who appears to be stirring in his sleep. The angel thinks nothing of it until he hears more rustling from the backseat.

Castiel turns around, immediately bursting into action at the sight of Sam’s arms and legs flailing in the backseat of the Impala. It’s difficult getting into the back seat with Sam thrashing around, but Castiel manages to maneuver himself around.

Sam convulses wildly, his eyes rolling back into his head, smacking the sides of the Impala’s seats with the back of the arms and legs. Castiel is stunned into a frozen stance and he’s unable to think of what to do.

Castiel’s brain flashes to a conversation he had with Sam previously, about how this happened when he went into withdrawal. Apparently he managed to survive these seizures before. There’s a high chance he’ll be okay now; Castiel has to tell himself that. He isn’t knowledgeable in this area so the only option he has is to wait it out.

Castiel knows from his limited previous research that he’s supposed to time them so he glances quickly at his watch, pressing the timer while still holding Sam’s hand.

His watch reads two minutes when Sam finally stops thrashing violently and his body goes tense, his eyes finally fully shutting and giving him the appearance of sleep, which calms Castiel’s heart even if only slightly. It seems peculiar, of all the horror and horrendous events and acts he witnessed he reduced to a panicked-stricken state over something so human.

Castiel holds his watch. It reads three minutes and he begins to try to rouse Sam by shaking his shoulders or calling his name but he’s completely unresponsive. His body has now gone limp entirely and his heart beat is infrequent enough that when Castiel first presses his hand against it, he has to wait to find it.

It’s a split second decision and he cannot wait any longer. Castiel places his forefingers on the edge of Sam’s forehead. He’s got very little grace left but he definitely has enough to heal Sam, at least he’s hoping so.

A brief spark of electricity. Sam only shifts slightly, his eyes blinking open slowly. Castiel exhales in relief.

“Are you okay Sam?” Castiel realizes the bluntness of the question but Sam blinks rapidly and rubs his head, wincing as he tries to sit up, groaning and adjusting himself so he’s sitting in upright. He looks very unsettled.

“Seizure?” he says calmly, his eyes shut leaning against the back of the seat. He seems oddly relaxed .

Castiel just nods. There’s no reason to fill Sam in on the other aspects of the story; it would just stress him out and possibly create conflict he doesn’t want to deal with.

Sam sighs. “Sorry Cas, I hate that you have to deal with all of this.”

“I’m not dealing with ‘anything,”’I’m just helping you. There’s no need for apologies.”

Sam grins slightly at his use of the out of place air quotes, “Thanks Cas.”

Castiel isn’t sure what to say, still trying to keep himself from letting his feelings from ten minutes earlier affect Sam. He climbs into the front seat, trying to steady his shaking hands. Sam stumbles slightly climbing into the passenger's seat and doesn’t say anything. The angel tries to crush his worry despite himself.

**


	4. Chapter 4

The morning is one like any other and it’s troubling to the angel. He’s wrapped in the plaid flannel layers of clothing and the cold still grips his core and causes his teeth to chatter violently. Inside the car there's condensation clouding outside of the window and Castiel traces his fingers through it, making somewhat defined swirls.

 

He huffs his breath and it covers up his finger tracks. It’s still so serene outside and the angel has always admired the bitterness of nature even though it causes him to wear more clothes and shiver slightly. It’s even worse for Sam surely.

 

The trees’ brittle arms reach across the sky, creating stark lines above. Castiel looks around from inside the car. He’s still shivering, bundled in several layers, and shaking his knee up and down with anxiety. There’s still faint snow falling down outside, creating a light dusting on the ground, and the angel sighs, trying to keep his nerves under control.

 

He doesn’t tell Sam; he doesn’t let the nervousness leak into the atmosphere of the Impala. He tries his best to show how calm he is that they are about to enter Hell and try to rescue the Righteous Man.

 

Sam is drifting away in the passenger’s side, leaning against the foggy window, his eyes drifting up and down in his eyelids. He’s breathing rather heavily, curled in on himself, and it seems like they’ve gone back in time to three weeks prior to when he found Sam in that dilapidated apartment.

 

Now it somehow seems different and Castiel feels some strange sensation of bitterness. It’s something he can’t quite name correctly, it’s almost like he’s coming close to some sort of ending, almost like peace.

 

Castiel turns the keys in the Impala; the car runs for several seconds and roars loudly before it catches and gives its signature growl. The angel turns it on the dirt, and it makes loud chirping noises as it goes across the frozen Earth and speeds away across the middle of Wyoming.

**

Sam stops to vomit outside on the frozen ground and he almost collapses right then and there. He’s clutching the beige cloth that contains the colt in his hands. He wretches and teeters to the side, giving the angel a lopsided, very sad expression. Castiel just watches him carefully, waiting for him to collapse entirely, but he stumbles back into the car, still gripping the gun tightly in his grasp, like he might die if he lets it go.

 

His voice is a wreck, rough so it sounds like he might fly into a coughing fit. “Keep going, please Castiel, I’m fine.”

 

The angel attempts to hesitate or put up an argument but he sees the determination in Sam’s eyes and he feels the words leave his throat. “Alright.”

 

They’re driving over the ground and there’s an odd silence along with the chattering of the angel’s teeth and Sam nervously shifting his leg up and down. The radio crackles oddly, not quite tuning into a station but not just static. They both don’t want to move to change the cassette tape, which would break the uncomfortable silence.

 

Castiel decides to speak up first. He’s not sure what to say, so he lets it come out unfiltered. “Listen, Sam. Before this happens, I would just like to say something.” He’s usually one for eloquence without meaning to be but now the words are caught in his throat and he swallows awkwardly and just looks ahead, staring outside at the frost covered windshield and sits there feeling guilty.

 

Sam is staring at him now and he’s seems confused. “What is it, Cas?” His voice sounds destroyed and he coughs several times.

 

Castiel doesn’t know how to go about what he’s going to say so it all comes tumbling out uncontrollably. He can’t stop the words, “Listen Sam, we’ve both screwed up and we’ve both messed up, as you probably know. I know this journey, this venture, is going to be dangerous and I know how terrible you’re feeling and how awful these past few months have been for you. I know how it feels to screw up and mess up and to be considered a mistake or broken or faulted.”

 

Castiel feels an abnormal feeling of emotional overbearing and he tries to get past this nervousness. “I’d just like you to know how meaningful you are and how it’s truly remarkable that you’ve made it this far and I hope you keep going. In fact, I know you will so, thank you.”

 

Sam is stunned into silence it seems, his eyes wide and very “puppy-dog-eyed,” as Castiel had heard before. He honestly looks like he’s going to cry or perhaps he too is struggling with words. He mouth gapes, almost like a fish and he just stutters and he’s unable to say anything, but he does choke out the words, “Thank you, Castiel, really it means a lot. I wish I had more to say, I’m sorry.”

 

“Please don’t be. We’re going to rescue your brother and we’ll arrive back safely.”

 

“Alright, thank you,” he says again and Castiel just continues driving, focusing on Sam next to him and the rumble of the car against the ground.

 

They arrive at the gate and it’s still the exact same way that Sam remembers it. He snaps straighter as the memories come climbing up his throat, somehow making him stronger, and he can’t help but feel like this is somehow symbolic in the strangest way.  He just subconsciously hops from foot to foot. Castiel observes him carefully and watches as he carefully unwraps the gun, holding it and then tucking it quickly into his waistband. Sam  looks at the angel across from him who is still bundled in layers and he smiles“Are you ready, Cas?” He almost stutters the words.

 

“Yes, I believe I am.” Castiel stares at the Hellgate with uncertainty, seeing it for the first time and it’s rather unimpressive, but the power it holds is almost palpable in the air.

 

“Well, we should do this and get it over with.” Sam oddly chuckles it quietly and Sam’s words are practically swallowed by the wind. He can’t think of what else to say.

 

Suddenly there’s a whole entire person around Castiel he’s surrounded by Sam’s body and his arms are wrapped tightly around his core and Castiel feels the urge to hug back, but his arms are trapped underneath Sam’s. He blinks at his firmness and boldness and he tries to pulls his arm out from underneath Sam’s but he simply can’t.

 

Sam’s grip is starting to hurt him and he goes to speak up but Sam beats him to it. “You’re exactly like I’d thought you’d be.” It’s the angel’s turn to be baffled. Sam’s clearly out of it altogether and he looks saddened so his words don’t seem sensible.

 

Castiel is puzzled and he turns his head to the side and he stares intently at Sam, seeing if his face gives away anything. “I fail to see how you could have known anything about me. You didn’t even know I existed how could you have made an impression”

 

At that Sam just chuckles and it’s somewhat endearing and he shakes his head slightly still smiling and the angel is still confused. “Never mind Castiel never mind” he says still grinning

It’s then that Sam becomes a little more serious as they both stand there and he seems to be contemplating something and he looks quite bashful.

 

“I just really want to thank you, for all that you’ve done for me and “ said Sam-he chokes out and Castiel taken aback and almost speechless himself doesn’t know what to say. He feels like he say something thoughtful and possibly utter “you’re welcome” but he’s struck too much by the weight in Sam’s words and admittedly a little frightened. This appears too abrupt of an ending and he doesn’t want it to end.

“You don’t have to, Sam you don’t have to thank me.”

Sam nodded, tears at the edge of his vision and he just continues small subtle nods with his arms tucked neatly at his sides. Suddenly  Sam takes the clothes and pulls something from his pocket, it’s small and shaped quite oddly;t has weird indents in it and the angel turns his head to the side, holding his hand out and Sam drops it in his palm. The object cool against his skin and he looks at it carefully, it’s a familiar shape with the carved flow of feathers. It’s an angel’s or birds’ wing.

 

“It’s from a statue that Dean got me when I was younger.and, well he umm Dean broke it angrily and I kept this piece because it was largest piece and I just wanted to hold onto it and it was such a beautiful statue and sorry I’m babbling, I’m sorry”

 

Castiel takes the cold fragment  in his hands, just completely caught up in the emotion. “Thank you Sam.” He tucks the fragment into the pocket of his trenchcoat. Castiel unsheathes his sword from the sleeve of his coat and he hands it delicately to Sam, who instead of questioning gladly accepts it’s graciously, his face grim.

**

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

The giant gates of metal clashing against themselves making gigantic roars and whistling as they open Sam finally backs away just as the doors slide open,which churns churning the Earth beneath them into a charred matter that immediately fills the vast area with the smell of smoke and fire. He gulps and almost trips over some of the gravestones and he can’t stop staring at the gaping door that leads to hell.

 

There’s a swirling column of smoke that twists and echoes into the sky, practically swallowed by the overcast clouds, turning them into withering black masses and filling the air with the distinct and unmistakable scent of sulphur. The demons burst practically in a frenzy, ignoring the angel and perfectly opportune vessel. They are so focused on being freed that they ignore their desire to destroy.

 

Castiel is standing at the ready next to Sam, gripping his angel blade tightly in his grasp, gazing is carefully observing the landscape, the dull and dreariness and simpleness of it. There’s an absence of anything; he blinks in confusion at the sudden loss of anything to fight, and he looks at Sam. Castiel is the first to be shocked out of his reverie and he moves quickly, trying to shove the sudden anxiety further into his breathing instead using it to push himself into action..

 

“Now Sam!” Sam is shocked and there’s a swirling column of celestial light, twisting at him and even though he’s prepared, he’s still in shock when the power comes streaming into his nose and mouth, going down his throat and into his being. Sam stumbles back into the frozen state.

 

He feels like his insides are being seared from the inside out and he coughs and chokes stumbling to his knees before dropping face first into the grass, literally a few feet from the entry to Hell. Blood drips heavily from his nose and mouth

 

Castiel’s body crumples messily into a heap, his eyes closed, almost like he’s sleeping and Sam’s drive. He feels the weight in his chest and he feels the burning and he’s certain that he’s driven to do this.

 

Sam stands there, looking backward, feeling the grace coursing through his veins and burning and shocking his insides. He looks downwards at the gate, seeing the orangey red hue of the Earth and he imagines his brother suffering.

 

And he leaps (without any hesitation)

**

There’s a chorus and a howling that nearly rips the sounds from his ears and he swears his ear drums are ripping and being torn to pieces. He has the never ending feeling of falling and floating, the air streaking past his head.

He feels the closeness of the rock nearly gleaming off his side and now he feels like he should wave his arms out to his side to slow his descent. But before he can until he hits the ground, or what he thinks to be the physical ground.

 

He drops and pulls himself from what appears to the ground, and he tries to suck in a breath and he cannot, but he can’t breathe at all. The atmosphere, if you can even consider  it that, is simultaneously molten hot and frigidly cold. So much so that he finds himself wanting to struggle to breathe and pull himself from the ground.

But he’s shocked and taken aback and he’s shuddering against the feeling of the angel being pulled from his skin.

 

He’s never felt his soul before but he can feel the subtly and oddly dim light glowing within his being, swirling and mixing together with the bright spot of angel grace. Only then does he really open his eyes . There’s a whirling screaming sound coming from his chest area, or where he would imagine his physical chest would be . Sam shudders at the feeling of having a celestial creature trapped within his body, mixing with his soul.

 

It’s dark, not even from a lack of light but almost from a lack of space. Trying to make sense of it almost makes him lose his mind. He can see the barest minimum of outlines of racks and chains, rocks in that same molten orange hue from before, seeing the slightly less bright soul being ripped and shredded from every angle possible; the light winces and practically cowers in fear as their captors violently rip through each, emitting loud screams in response.

 

The soul are restrained and look shockingly close to human figures and react in the same way, as they are physically carved like they’re nothing.

 

There’s only him, the brightest light in Hell, and he admits it’s a rather brilliant light that reflects in the eyes of the most disgusting and heinous demons. No one stops him or reaches for him, but instead almost stops in almost just sheer marvel and amazement.The atmosphere is as taut as a bowstring, there’s a howling and screeching of the souls of the damned and the screaming stops abruptly and the tension grows and Sam stops his march, his legs feel as if they’re made of lead , daring anyone or anything to stop him from reaching his brother.

 

And out of nowhere the demons swarm him, swallowing him in like an inky blanket of disgusting blackness

Sam doesn’t even have time to scream before  he’s being consumed by their sheer mass and he screams, ready to be caught and strung up before he can even get a few feet into Hell. There’s a glowing light within the mound and he swings the sword, Castiel’s sword in the demons surrounding him, they clear backwards, staring at the celestial blade, glowering and screeching.

 

And the command echoes from his throat without him really meaning to, “Move!” The demons go streaming backward tumbling at the mere sound of his voice and they echo off the walls of Hell.

 

He breaks and goes walking forward, ignoring the screaming and the sheer loudness of the situation, powered by angel’s grace.

 

He’s going to rescue his brother.

 

The illusion of time begins to disappear as he descends deeper into hell and into the pit. He has no idea of his direction, just a blinding instinct of exactly where to go. The days melt and bleed into a singular mass of screams and howling and the sheer white noise.

**

He stares and walks across the most heinous acts. Some so much so his brain struggles to comprehend and he pulls through, the smell of blood and guts and sulphur would be enough to wipe him completely away, enough to destroy his soul entirely or reduce it to a dim, weak nothingness. He just trudges calmly a glowing candle in such darkness, looking calmly and working towards his goal of finding his brother.

**

The years stretch on as they’re swallowed completely and he continues going, focusing on the grace in his being, trying to keep himself sane.

**

He reaches the rack in about a year. He sees in it in all of its entirety, staring at the soul being held by more severe torture than the first, as opposed to the less organized set-up of the previous section .

 

He glances at the sheer enormity of it and the screams streaming loudly from the tortured souls He can only see the brilliant light in the middle, but it’s not being held down, instead floating free.

 

The column of light is shining brilliantly into the massive heavy blackness. It’s so relieving to see after tramping through Hell for what could be considered years and now he see his brother’s soul. He realizes the light coming from himself is reflected against the world and both the lights are swallowed and mixed together.

 

He stands in awe, uttering only one single word, a name, a name he’s known all his life.

 

Dean.

 

After that everything is torn to pieces and he’s swarmed again, eaten alive. He can feel the knives and blades, the torture devices tearing into his being and the pieces descend to the ground. He’s tempted to scream again. He doesn’t have the power or the force to push them away, or to stab them; he can barely raise the angelic weapon. He’s saving the leftover energy for saving his brother from damnation and he lets them come at him instead, surrendering because that’s all he can do now. And he’s being tossed left and right, smashing into the rock repeatedly until he feels himself being consumed and beaten and torn to pieces

 

“I’m sorry, Dean,” he swallows again, sending out what he thinks to be his final prayer.

 

“Forgive me, Castiel,” he collapses in a heap, being mutilated by tainted souls.

 

Dean turns abruptly, noticing the commotion, as he can even see the commotion of the place created for damnation. He feels the odd need to hum, even though it can’t be heard over the screams. It keeps him as serene as possible but he’s jolted out of his solace and he retrieves the blade of the damned souls, he pulls it out carefully as the scream climbs higher and the soul almost wilting as he withdraws the weapon.

 

He turns around, seeing the oddly bright light behind him, a familiar feeling as he rips out the blade of the wretched soul and he turns seeing his a twisted light. It’s being swallowed by the blackness of other demons and Dean practically screams and it carries him forward. He throws himself into the mass, ripping for the brightness He  has to reach the light. He can feel the demons ripping into his back and chest but he pushes them out of the way and he grabs the small singular light, pulling it closer to him.

 

The light is familiar, close, and very timid, almost dull in a way that it’s not. The light within is glowing mildly and he knows and he doesn’t know. Finally he reaches it and holds it close. He has to rescue it.

 

He pulls himself from it. Suddenly the brilliant light flashes and he feels himself being ripped from the pit violently and into the light

**

Sam’s senses return first. It’s almost like he’s been pulled and dismembered and mutilated, his senses and qualities ripped and stripped away to the basic processes and senses. He feels the rough grass and it’s soft in the strangest way. He grips it tightly, pulling himself out of the destroyed part of the ground. He feels disconnected. There’s a distinct whistling that throbs in tune with his brain. The sickness and weight from the demon blood is somehow alleviated but not in a comfortable way; it feels like he’s been carved out, leaving an empty shell.

 

But the dirt is somehow softer under his fingertips and molding against it and getting under his fingernails and he pulls himself further out of the hole. It’s painstaking and long but he can’t seem to think straight other than this audacious long slow process of repetitive action and somehow that even seems like a large overload.

 

The angel grace he believes. He can’t think straight, the word angel starts to sounds foreign, more like a concept than an actual creature. He begins panicking, hyperventilating as the moment comes slamming back into him and he feels like breaking down like a child. It’s like he’s being pulled back by memories alone.

 

How long has it  it been, years? He’s choking out small bouts of air and he feels the light-headedness and the weight on his chest.

 

His vision is skewed, the world drawn back and it’s black and white with colour violently shaking his brain and it causes him to freeze. Sam’s confused as to why he can only crawl forward with one arm, the other one appears to be weighted somehow it pulls behind him and Sam moves it and finds that he can.

 

There’s a mound of hair and shoulders and Sam’s realizes his holding a human being in his other arm. He’s real and solid and Dean. He finally did it, Dean’s finally alive and laying on the scorched grass. Sam attempts to sit up and ends up falling over a little comically, collapsing with a puff in the dirt, nearly landing on his brother who lies passed out beside him.

 

He can’t describe the happiness he feels from seeing Dean alive and in one piece. He looks around at the barren landscape. It’s whining, almost like there’s a fuzzy static and Sam’s convinced he’s gone deaf entirely, until he hears a sharp whine and a sound next to him.

 

His brother calling his name beneath him, blinking his green eyes open. “Sammy.”

 

Sam’s eyes meet Dean’s. They both have tears building and they’re full of happiness, they’re finally reunited again. He wraps his arms around his big brother, the brother that’s always been there for him, never wanting to let him go again.

 

When they get back to the Impala, Dean immediately passes out in the backseat, still clad in his somewhat torn clothing. Sam’s wrapped him in one of the blankets he and Castiel used when it was brutally cold. He seems so peaceful, not covered in cuts and bruises. Sam looks at him in the rear-view mirror. Dean’s safe and alive and Sam almost can’t believe it’s true.

**

And Dean’s pretty heavy, Sam’s forgotten how he weighs and even more how weak he’s gotten since before and he feels his muscles practically screaming as he drags him across the frozen ground. He hooks his arms underneath Dean’s armpits and he can’t pick him up but he’s sure he’s going to collapse onto the ground. So he awkwardly pulls him from the destroyed ground.

Temporarily he forgets Dean in his arms and it shocking to think of that fact but he doesn’t know what to think as the idea forms in his brain. As much as he wants to bury it deep immediately but he cannot it feels wrong.

Sam checks the horizon and sees nothing malicious or dangerous but that’s there is nothing, not a single dangerous or more importantly nothing angelic

Nothing at all and he feels a bubble of panic, there’s not a creature approaching him and it feels odd like hell and all it’s fury should be pouring on his head.

But there’s nothing at all.

Castiel was supposed to be waiting for him and any fallout that may have occurred, but Sam can’t see anyone. He feels his heart racing in his chest and Sam tries to catch his breath because he can’t even let himself consider what might have happened, it can’t it just can’t.

Sam stands there lost, the grass brushing against his legs and he can feel bright flashes of light flaring through his brain and he’s not sure if flashbacks or if he’s finally cracked, if after all that struggle he’s going to die right here in this field.

There’s emptiness behind the bright flashes and Sam falls to his knees, for once he’s completely lost. Sam is so out of practice he’s not sure that last time he even considered, he doesn’t know what day it is or if it’s even the same year at all but he knows that someone is listening to him, there always has been.

 

But Sam is at a lost for words and he stumbles over things to say and his mind comes up blank, he has no idea what to say anymore

He just feels empty and he stacks back to where he’s left Dean

**

 

The night invades the sky and there’s still no sign of any sort of life around Sam, angeliec or otherwise. As if the world stopped in it’s tracks at his return. Sam focuses on putting one foot in front of the other and carrying Dean in his arms, who still remains still and there’s no sign that he will wake up anytime soon, but it’s comforting Sam that he said anything at all.

Sam finally makes it back to the car and he’s shocked at how long the walk seems to be, time is still unusual and for lack of a better word, messy.

Dean has grown heavy in his arms and it’s a relief to set him on the hood of the Impala, his arms and legs just collapse onto one another, rag doll style and Sam can’t help himself in spite of everything he cracks a small grin.

He opens the Impala’s door, avoiding looking at anything specific in the car both his and Castiel’s small amount of personal items that have collected and he tries not to hyperventilate as he glances at the mess. Sam grabs several jackets and a blanket that was most likely stolen from a random hotel.

Dean is still asleep on the hood and the stars slowly appear from above and he glances up at them as he holds all the clothing in his arms stopping to look at it just for the briefest of seconds, and he sends out a silent prayer into the sky hoping desperately that it’ll be answering.

_I saved him._

**

Sam walks outside and sits on the hood and wraps Dean in the clothes he grabbed. Sam can’t remember which one is his or was Dean’s before or what Castiel last wore and somehow that upsets him and he feels just empty and alone, even with his brother laying next to him.

Dean is very much like an anchor, like he’s always been but now he’s literally the only reason Sam hasn’t lost his mind. He’s not certain what shock feels like but he’s pretty certain that this must be close to what it feels like.  Like nothing to be solid and real and almost fuzzy and dreamlike in the strangest way

Sam tries to keep his mind busy because he knows that he and Castiel never discussed a after plan because as hopeful and striving as they both were, they never talked about what would happen after. He has to imagine that Castiel is okay, because Sam knows that he would know , somehow someway that he’s gone.

He pulls Dean closer to his chest, feeling the Grace buzzing beneath his skin still. Like being shocked on all areas of his skin, he didn’t notice until this moment and it makes him jumpy adding to the giant pile of things weighing on his shoulders, but Sam chooses to ignore it for now. Instead looking at the stars as flicker above, holding his brother in his arms and sending out silent prayers that his friend Castiel is okay

_**To Be Continued** _  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
